A Collection
by Mellie DeHiraeth
Summary: Each chapter is a completely different story. This 'story' is intended to sort the stories I'm writing in my free time and find out what people want. Please review so I know what you want to see. Note: The number of solely Harry Potter stories greatly outnumber the Pokemon ones, and indeed the crossovers are equally rare. I apologize if your reading this feels misguided.
1. Draco Dies

Summary: A humorous story in which Draco travels back in time, rescues Potter, and finds out what to do with his *bleep* of a life. Includes mass murder, worship, and annoying, manipulative headmasters.

Rated T (potentially M?)

* * *

Of all the ways to go. Of all the _bloody_ ways to die, this just _had_ to be it.

Pushed into the veil before he could even say 'Hogwarts'. Of all the _bloody_ ways…

When Draco had first considered why he was being called in as evidence to the trial over the Potter divorce, he had pondered over the idea that Potter was going to surreptitiously kill him, therefore ending any of Draco's wild fantasies about making nice with the Gryffindor Golden Boy. Then he had wondered if the Weaselette was going to kill him instead, in a violent show of protecting her husband from greedy Slytherin paws, thus rendering their marriage intact. But shoved into the veil by a passing observer? _Not_ how he planned his spectacular, youthful death to go.

As a teenager, he'd wondered over the many ways he could end up dead. When he had taken the mark, he'd wondered if suicide would be more newsworthy, and/or restore his public image. When Potter had married the Weasel's little sister, he'd completed making a fatal Draught of Living Death, then thought better of it when Potter decided to start talking to him again. The trial was just the icing on the cake.

Well, at least death was rather painless. He could get used to floating around in nothingness, despite the incredible boredom that was beginning to inch up on him, as well as the alarming thought that he would never be able to fix any of his mistakes.

Just as he was about to remember every little thing he'd ever done wrong, a rushing sound flooded his ears, and he found himself watching his life in reverse. Emotions, emotions he hadn't let himself feel during life, flowed freely, and he found himself barely able to contain the sheer amount of feelings he'd crushed.

Then - a consciousness.

That was the only explanation for it. Something, something that felt magical, but not quite truly there, brushed his own mind and pushed aside his occlumency shields as if they were nothing but an annoying stack of papers. It searched him relentlessly. Finally, it moved back, and while Draco couldn't see it, he could _feel_ it.

" _ **Fix your mistakes. Save the boy. There is another like you."**_

Draco opened his eyes again and was greeted by his room.

"Well then," Draco muttered. "Merlin help me, if I spend the afterlife in my _room_ -" Glancing at his calendar, he felt his jaw slack.

 _June 5th, 1991._

He pinched his cheek.

"Ow…"

He looked at his hands.

"...Sweet Salazar on a stick."

He could fix everything. He could do it right. He could-

Draco forced himself to calm down. Realizing it wouldn't be enough, he cried, "Dobby!" And hoped for the best.

"Yes, Little Master Malfoy?" The cowed elf was there. Living proof that he had indeed gone back in time. Living proof. Living proof…

"Get me a calming draught, quick. I've got an important job for you..."

* * *

A/N: Draco Dies, the first of many, many snippets of stories I'm working on. Please do review to show the interest and questions of each story chapter I post here - that way I can find out what people want and which ones to focus on.


	2. Angel

Summary: Harry knew that he needed an angel. When ten-year-old Hermione Granger is attacked and uses magic, Harry decides she needs an angel too - and promptly grows wings. From there, he follows her to Hogwarts, hiding his existence from all save for her, guiding her through her years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, while also learning of himself.

Rating: K+

* * *

Harry sat on the swing in the park quietly, content to listen to the world at large as he waited for the Dursleys to cool down so that he could return to them without being injured too badly. He'd done it again; his freakishness had gotten the better of him. He wasn't sure how he ended up on the roof of the house, but however he'd done it, he was sure that it wasn't by normal means.

He wondered how he'd come to be like this, sitting on a swing, freaky, strange, and unloved. Maybe other people had guardian angels. It would explain a lot. Certainly, if anyone needed an angel, it was him.

Freaks don't get angels, he told himself pointedly, even though Petunia hadn't said that. You don't deserve that. It was probably true though.

And yet there was a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that maybe he should have an angel. Maybe he just needed to prove he deserved one.

Just then, he heard a feminine cry, and the way it cut off broke into him and tore at his heart. He knew that tone, the tone he himself had used so many times, and so he got to his feet and raced through the trees at the edge of the park, determined to protect the girl who'd cried out.

He stopped again at the edge of the trees, peering out, and waited for an opportunity. The girl was small and fragile-looking, her hair bushy and brown, and she was sobbing over a torn-up book while a few boys watched on, laughing all the while.

He gasped quietly when there was a burst of light, and suddenly the boys had writing all over their bodies, from head to toe, covered in black words. They screeched and cried out, swearing their revenge, and ran off, leaving the girl behind to stare, gobsmacked, at where they had been.

Harry was a bit worried, but he quickly made sense of what was happening. This girl was like him, a freak of nature who needed an angel.

Quietly, to himself, he wondered what to do. Obviously this girl needed an angel; but where to find one? And how would he convince them she needed one? No, better that he protected her where he could…

He felt another burst, and he toppled back into the undergrowth with a groan, watching as the girl ran off, her torn book in hand. He was about to follow her when he realized there was a weight on his back.

Turning around to look, he gasped. On his back were two fluffy, white wings! He reached out and caressed them gently, feeling the feathers on his fingers, and tentatively tried to use them.

The first few times, his attempts were clumsy, unguided, and altogether failures, but after the fourth or fifth attempt he realized what he needed to do. He stretched them out, flapped harshly a few times, and finally rose a few meters into the air.

He dropped to the ground again with an agonizing 'oof!' but while his headache was worse his smile was bigger. Things were starting to make sense. Perhaps he was an angel, awakened now that someone needed him? It made sense. Then again, perhaps it was just his freakishness again, but he didn't really mind. If he could use it to protect the girl, he would.

It was a few hours later that Harry was flying, flying far above his little world and seeing the world beyond. It was a wonderful feeling, flying, and he hoped he'd have many chances to fly, again and again. It only occurred to him as the sun began to go down that he couldn't return to the Dursleys with two large wings on his back; they'd accuse him of freakishness again and kick him out for good, so he may as well jump the gun and head out instead of taking his chances at the hands of his aunt, uncle and cousin.

He stretched his wings, breathed out, and rose.

* * *

Hermione Granger sat in her room and took deep breaths, her favourite book - Matilda - on the floor next to her. Shuddering, she reached out, and after a few moments the book rose slowly and hovered into her waiting hands.

Somehow, she doubted what she could do was the same as what Matilda could do.

It always happened when she was being bullied, or when she was really distracted with a good book. She knew her parents had noticed; the milk would pour itself, the pages in her books would flip on their own, after the first few times bullies would avoid her like the plague. She didn't blame them for keeping their distance; if she were them, she would too.

She curled up on her bed and held the book to her chest. Normally she'd immediately begin reading it, but today she felt like watching. For what, she wasn't sure, but she entertained the thought that perhaps tonight something magical would happen, just like in her stories.

She stared out the window at the moonlit darkness. It was really rather pretty, now that she thought about it. The backyard, with its tall, green trees and weed-littered lawn was glowing with moisture in the moonlight, the angel in the tallest tree ruffling his feathers….

Angel?

ANGEL?

Leaping to her feet, she dropped a book for the first time in her ten years and glued her eyes to the glass. It wasn't her imagination; there really was an angel in her backyard!

She watched him for a few more seconds. He had shaggy black hair, and his wings were fluffy and white as snow; he looked rather thin, but perhaps that was normal for an angel. Taking a calming breath, Hermione raced downstairs into the living room, where her father sat working on his laptop, which was malfunctioning again, and her mother read a cookbook.

"Mum, Dad! Where's the camera? Quickly, quickly, quickly, or he'll fly away!" Hermione screamed. The two parents hopped to their feet in surprise, but after a few more moments of delirious screaming, Hermione's father pushed a handheld camera she'd gotten for her last birthday into her hands.

"Thank you!" She called, racing back up the stairs. Hopefully the angel would still be on the tree when she got back.

She hopped the last step and stopped abruptly in front of her door. Opening it slowly, camera at the ready, she gasped silently as the door creaked open.

The angel was on her windowsill.

Thankfully, it was turned away, looking at the moon. She raised the eyepiece to her face and peered through it, steadying her shaking hands and pushing down the button.

The flash went off.

The angel bounced away immediately, gliding down and swooping upwards, flapping hard to gain height as Hermione raced to her window and peered out, camera at her side. Soon the angel disappeared altogether, and she sighed sadly, staring at the spot where she'd lost sight of it for a few more moments before finally returning to her bed and collapsing on her sheets.

She pushed a few buttons and began rifling through the pictures. Most were of her house, her family, and the nearby park. Finally reaching the end, she awed at the proof in her hands.

Luckily, she'd caught the picture right before the angel had moved. The flash meant that there was a bit of a glare from the window, but it was still clearly an angel. She'd even caught the moon in the picture. She smiled at the little screen, holding it above her head, and for once books were completely out of her mind.

"I should frame this," she murmured, getting to her feet, holding the camera tightly to her chest. Walking calmly downstairs, she then decided that she wouldn't tell anyone about the angel; surely, when people found things like this, they kept them secret to protect them? Her parents wouldn't believe it anyway, and if she told her teachers she might be sent to the loony bin. No, she'd keep a secret. Her own little secret.

"Dad?" Hermione peeped around the edge of the doorway into the living room. "Could you set up the printer for me? I want to print a picture."

Dan Granger sighed and got to his feet, walking to his printer and putting the pictures on his laptop. He handed it off to his daughter - after all, she was a careful child, and would never hurt his tech - and walked off, rubbing his headache.

Hermione quickly had her picture printed. Nodding once, she deleted the file from her camera and handed the computer back to her father.

Now, to make a frame for it…

* * *

Harry took a deep breath and hopped down to the windowsill again. The bright flash, probably from a flashlight, had scared him out of his wits, so he'd taken an impromptu midnight flight to ease his nerves, but he had a mission to complete.

Sitting on the windowsill, he stared into the window of the room. He'd feel bad about it, but he needed to find the girl from before. He'd already checked about twenty houses, but he hadn't had any luck yet. This house was taking longer than the others, but hopefully he'd be able to finish checking it soon and move on.

Then his heart skipped a beat.

There she was, sleeping on her bed, in a room filled with books. He hadn't actually thought he'd find her, but apparently he was lucky. Now he knew where she lived, he could protect her!

He watched her for a while. It wasn't that he particularly wanted to be branded a stalker or a creep, but he hadn't really thought this far ahead. What would he do now?

Well, maybe he could sleep for a bit. The roof was suddenly looking very comfortable.

* * *

A/N: Angel is... an iffy one. I'm not sure how to feel about it. But I hope you enjoyed this small portion nonetheless.


	3. Howling Curse

Summary: Harry, at age ten, is found by a death eater, who curses him for fun. Shackling him into a werewolf's form, he creates a curse which forces Harry to kill if he is ever to have his human body again. Too kind to kill someone, he is chained and locked away, taken to the next Death Eater meeting where Lucius buys him for his son, Draco. Shown sympathy by the younger Malfoy, Harry takes a shine to him and joins him when he enters Hogwarts.

Rated T

* * *

Harry shivered on the doorstep, glancing longingly back at the door to his house. He'd really screwed up this time.

He didn't want to turn his professor into a kangaroo, he really didn't. He was just so mean. Shaking his head, he got up and began walking to keep his legs warm, shivering away in the darkness, his arms wrapped around him to try and preserve heat.

Seeing a lamppost in the distance, he stood under it and rubbed his hands together. It was winter of 1990, the winter before his eleventh birthday, and peering up at the bugs that fluttered around the lamp's meager light, he wondered how many birthdays after this he'd see.

Stretching out, he cracked his knuckles, taking pleasure in the snap of his joints. He rarely got to spread out his body like he felt he should; he was always being stuffed in the cupboard, and he could no longer stretch out fully within it.

"Stupid, stupid boy. You should have stayed inside."

The cold voice pierced his ears, and he found himself running, but something struck his back, and he was down on the ground. His arms, his legs, they wouldn't listen to him. He was frozen, stuck, and he gasped as a foot struck his back sharply.

"I'm going to have fun today," the voice cackled. "Now, what to do… ah, I know. Have you ever heard of werewolves, boy?"

"Yes, sir," he replied instantly, twitching what little he could. "Please let me go."

"No, I don't think I will," the man drawled. "Stay still while I turn you into a werewolf. Nice little trick, this is…" Taking a deep breath, the man began to recite nonsense words.

"Ejulatu, lupus, ligabis

pretium liberta; mortem suam!"

A rippling pain struck Harry's whole body, and crying out in pain, he wondered, shocked, what this meant. Magic was real, despite what the Dursleys told him; they were probably afraid his magic would do this.

He couldn't help it; he screamed, his skin turning in on itself as he felt his face warp and change, his glasses dropping off, forgotten as he watched claws grow from his fingers in horror. His lips began to bleed as his teeth elongated into fangs, his once-large clothes ripping as his body grew to accommodate his new shape. Fur leaped out of his skin, ripping open his body and making him bleed all over; ears stretched out and he whined as he heard a sharp, loud laughter which stung his ears. Transformation finally over, he fell to his stomach and lay still, too tired to fight back as the man stunned him once again and caged him.

He fell asleep to iron bars surrounding him.

* * *

"Where'd you get that werewolf pup, Goyle? He's rather ratty, isn't he?"

Harry's eyes flew open, and he was greeted by darkness and a dustiness that irritated his nose. He let out a pitiful whine, remembering his situation, and attempted to evaluate the new voice.

The man was a tall blonde in fancy clothing; perhaps another wizard? He watched as the man observed him closely, peering at him from all angles.

"He's just a muggle, Lucius." Goyle replied, waving it off. "No magic in him. Some kid from Surrey. Decided to have a little fun, but don't really want to keep him. Either I sell him or toss him on the street to terrorize a village someplace."

Lucius glared at Harry like he was a monstrous beast - which he probably was. "My son would like him," he admitted, eying Harry up warily. "You're sure the thing's safe?"

"Of course," Goyle confirmed. "It won't fight. Refuses to hurt people."

I'd hurt bad people, Harry thought. I wonder… are these bad people?

Lucius nodded. "Alright. Twenty galleons?"

"Have 'im for ten," Goyle chuckled. "You're doing me a favour taking him."

Lucius rolled his eyes and pulled ten golden coins from a pouch. Tossing them over to Goyle, he drawled, "Nice doing business." Grabbing Harry's cage, he bowed, then teleported suddenly, causing Harry to yelp in surprise.

"Shut up, you," Lucius scolded. "Get used to it. I'm only keeping you for my son, you understand? Be nice or don't eat."

Harry decided that was fair. He nodded in agreement and muted himself, staying perfectly still as Lucius carried him out into the yard. He walked out calmly as Lucius opened the cage, glancing around warily for a few moments.

"You'll live out here," Lucius offered. "Do not hurt anyone. I will feed you tonight. If you so much as leave a scratch on anything, consider your supper tossed into the bin." Harry nodded vigorously; he knew these rules. These were the rules the Dursleys gave him.

Wandering out, Harry went to make a place to stay. Since he doubted he was going to turn back soon, if ever, he may as well make himself comfortable with the wizard.

* * *

"Son?" Draco stilled. Closing his diary, he hopped to his feet and began to walk to the door.

Opening it, he said, "Yes, father?" His father, ever intimidating, gave him a calculating look.

"You said you were interested in magical creatures," he mused. "Follow me. I have adopted a little… project. You might find him interesting."

Curious, Draco followed his father through the house and out into the yard. He was a little confused, but he waited to hear what his father would say next.

"Today," Lucius drawled, "one of my associates sold me a cursed muggle. I am sure, from your reading, that you know of the Wolfshowl curse."

"The one that turns people into werewolves until they kill someone?" Draco confirmed, relief flooding him at his father's nod.

"The muggle was cursed with Wolfshowl a few days ago. He's a very docile sort, so he will not hurt you. Feel free to do with him as you wish." Smiling sharply, he whistled.

A few moments later, Draco saw a large grey shape loping across the field. It slowed once they were in full view, giving him a chance to see what he looked like.

Like all werewolves, he had an arched back and ratty fur, though his fur was dark black, presumably like his former hair. His ears perked up, listening to something Draco couldn't hear, and his front paws seemed somewhat painful, as if they weren't really able to support him like they should. He probably didn't know that werewolves walked on their back legs, and only used their fronts to run.

He was also incredibly thin; Draco could see every rib, and even a bit of the creature's skull. It bothered him that something intelligent was underneath the beast's guise, but he soothed himself and stared at the creature's eyes.

The eyes were striking. If ever something summed up 'a diamond in the dirt', this was it; two priceless gems embedded in a ratty and ugly visage. The wolf's emerald eyes shone with a knowing intelligence, revealing his thoughts and yet hiding him, drawing people further into his secret life, the one Draco would never know.

"Hello," Draco greeted politely, reaching out to stroke the wolf's head. It whined and allowed it, the beautiful eyes closing lazily as he leaned into the gentle touch.

"I'll leave you with him, son," Lucius commented from over his shoulder. "Wolf. Do as my son says." A silent threat hung on the end of his words as he paced back into the house.

Draco waited until his father was gone to collapse into a shuddery mess. "How could anyone do this?" he murmured, sitting down to hug himself close and think. He needed to clear his head. "Why?"

The wolf whined softly and flopped down beside him. It relaxed under his touch; awed, he let his hand run up and down the muggle's back.

"What do I call you?" Draco mused. "I can't just keep calling you 'wolf' or 'muggle'."

The wolf nodded slowly, staring off into the distance. Finally, it leaped up to its feet and raced off, returning with a stick and beginning to draw in the dirt.

"The house elves are going to be furious," Draco quipped, but they had a letter - H. The wolf stopped, and his tail hung low in embarrassment. "Uh, don't worry about it. Let's see… what sort of name with H?"

The wolf walked up and sat down next to Draco, who was staring at the 'H' carved in the dirt. Glancing at him, Draco asked, "mind if I just give you a name? How does Hercules sound?"

The wolf nodded firmly and nuzzled Draco's hand.

"You act just like a dog," Draco commented, rubbing the werewolf's head. "Why are you nice? Why aren't you trying to escape?"

Hercules looked up at him, emerald eyes searching his face. Finally, it let out a breathy whine and looked down at its paws.

"Why?" Draco asked gently. "Why?"

Something told him that Hercules simply didn't know.

* * *

A/N: Ah, Howling Curse. I like this one. I've always liked the idea of an animagus Harry pretending to be Draco's familiar... this is a spin on that.

As always, please read, review, and tell me what you think.


	4. Dementor's Victim

Summary: AU of POA. In protecting Harry, a terrible coincidence leads to the removal of Harry's curse scar and the death of Sirius and Remus. When he wakes, he goes into shock, and believing him soulless, Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix give up on him. Armed with new knowledge, Harry's attempt to gain closure becomes something more...

Rated T

* * *

They were surrounded.

Harry wasn't sure what to think. Everything was going so fast; his godfather was here, Hermione was missing, having run off into the woods before the Dementors had closed around him; he didn't blame her. This was probably the last straw for life-threatening situations. Even his godfather had fainted, laying at his side.

One of them was getting close. He attempted to grab his wand, but for some reason he simply didn't have the strength to do it. Subconsciously he knew he was signing his death sentence; he didn't really care. There wasn't much left to care about; the same song-and-dance. They would all abandon him eventually. One day, they wouldn't come back. He could already hear his mother.

The dementor lifted its hood.

Underneath the hood was a suitably horrifying sight. Nothing but a gaping hole of a mouth, reaching forward. This dementor was going to Kiss him. He feebly shuffled backwards, maneuvering himself in front of Sirius so that if he fell, the dementor would not be able to grip Sirius with that gaping maw.

He closed his eyes and felt something on his forehead.

It pulled violently, and despite barely bothering to breathe, he jolted, screaming. He supposed nobody had ever mentioned the pain of having the jaws of death bite your forehead because nobody had lived to tell the tale… or at least remembered it.

The world blurred, and he suddenly felt like a stranger in his own mind. Memories, thoughts not his own began to flash past him.

 _Orphanage. His emotionless caretakers informing him of his mother being dead.._

 _School. Being treated like a demon until he was able to win their admiration. Dumbledore, strange and alien and terrifying, always maneuvering things behind his back to make him appear the problem child._

 _The chamber. The basilisk. Muggleborn Myrtle tattling to the school about his halfblood status, proclaiming his mother a desperate whore. Myrtle dying in the bathroom at the hands of the basilisk. Him being blamed._

 _His father. Burning hatred, memories of a mother he never knew. Blood on his hands. His father dead on the ground._

 _Dumbledore. Denial, refusal; ripping him from his lifelong dream, his home._

 _Whispers. Convincing people of his cause, feeding off of the ill will and bigotry that already existed. Bringing it slowly up from a quiet group to a manic one._

 _Paranoia. Demanding his followers to take the mark._

 _Insanity. Killing those who betray him. Releasing the simmering emotions on those who disobey._

 _Potter. The magic rebounding, thinking in his last moment that Potter is an heir of Slytherin._

 _How else would he rebound the Killing Curse?_

Harry opened his eyes. It was deliberate, slow; every motion felt like trying to move rocks. He felt heavy; he was breathing still, his heart was beating, but every movement outside of what he did automatically had to be done with pure will. It was like trying to move someone else's body.

He looked down at the ground. Where was Sirius? Turning his head, he tried to study the clearing and find out what was happening. The Dementors were gone; he was alone.

Staring out, he slowly realized that there was blood everywhere. A few meters away was a dog. He looked away. It was dead; from the scratches, it looked as if Lupin had done it…

He suddenly felt sick to his stomach. A few meters away, a familiar body was lying motionless on the ground, a pocket knife stabbed into his chest. He forced himself to throw up to get rid of the burn in his throat and sat back.

No more moving. No more seeing.

No more.

Harry shut himself off and fell willingly into darkness.

* * *

A/N: Dementor's Victim is mostly a healing fic, and while I really like the idea and aesthetic, it's difficult to write. I'm curious to know how interested people are in this.

Also, just discovered italics are not transported over from my storage... dammit.


	5. Burned and Blinded

Summary: Harry is burned beyond recognition saving the girl across the street from a wizard-made fire. Imagine his surprise when he leaves and drops the girl into the hands of Draco Malfoy, and later wakes up unable to recognize himself and bonded familiar of formerly mentioned Slytherin. Seeing an escape from the wild life of Harry Potter, he accepts the nickname given to him - Oberon - and goes to Hogwarts as Draco's familiar.

* * *

Harry James Potter woke up to the sound of magic.

Magic, of course, does not have a sound, but he could feel the buzz in the air, the tingling of the skin that being near magic gave him. It was an easy, under-the-skin feeling that he barely noticed, but considering he was at the Dursleys and it was a month before his thirteenth birthday, he felt he had the right to be alarmed.

Leaving his room quickly, he dashed down the steps and grabbed Vernon's keys, opening the door and racing out. He defended his eyes against the glare of crackling fire as he quickly realized what was happening.

Magical fire darted over the roof of the house just across the road and down a little, the yells and calls of concern from the neighbours ringing out and interrupting an otherwise-silent night. He dashed towards the place, unable to think of what to do but otherwise hopeful that he could somehow help out.

In hindsight, he supposed nobody expected a thirteen-year-old boy to heroically dash into a blazing, wizard-made fire and rescue people. Harry James Potter, of course, expected himself to, mostly because he'd lived the last two years with people simultaneously protecting him with extreme measures and expecting him to kill Dark Lords, overgrown snakes, and wayward professors. For that reason, Harry ran headfirst into the fire, which was a very stupid, very brave, and ultimately very Gryffindor thing to do.

Fire felt like ice. Or at least, it did once the burn left his nerves, or however what was happening was happening. He didn't know how long he spent in the fire and on fire, but he knew that each time the fire licked at his body new sounds and feelings of pain emerged, an endless, tireless pain that travelled over his face and down his side as he dove away from it. Despite this, he caught sight of a little girl in the corner.

When it struck him that this was all he could save, he swung her up along his side which was not on fire, raced towards the nearest window, and jumped through. What remained of his clothes were ripped with a muffled tearing sound as he hit the ground before he could prepare himself, his body finally stopping with a dull thump that made the world suddenly go quiet, the crackling blaze behind him ignored.

Getting up again, he smiled as the last of the fire on his skin was doused and fought off by his natural magic and began struggling to his feet and stumbling away from the fire, the soft sobs of the little girl in his arms the source of strength he needed to keep going. He didn't even react as he saw a few people apparate onto the lawn in front of him; he could barely see, he doubted he'd even brought his glasses with him, but he could just about see the familiar colours of the uniforms he recognized as ministry standard. A blond boy raced up to him, and he barely had time to question anything before reaching out to him, handing the girl off to him with a relieved sigh.

His job was done. He could rest.

Harry closed his eyes, and the world went black.

* * *

"Father, help!" Draco called, immediately wincing at the childishness of the statement but ignoring it in favour of keeping his eyes on the two muggles that had somehow escaped the fire. He briefly wondered how they'd survived; after all, they did not have ready access to water via the aguamenti spell. He ignored it in favour of handing the small girl off to his flustered father - how strange it was for his father to be flustered - and reached out to grab the boy muggle who had handed the girl to him before promptly fainting.

The moment he touched the boy he felt a ripple of magic connect them, and he let out a choked gasp as he felt his magic pour into the muggle boy immediately, the smouldering burns healing themselves automatically. For a rather dull moment he considered the possibility that the muggle was stealing his magic, but before he could follow that notion the magic slowed enough that his core could keep up, and finally the strain on his body relaxed, though he felt like if he tried any menial labour he'd collapse within an hour.

He gagged at the gruesome sight. Never had he seen the aftermath of a fire quite like this; while before he'd only seen minor burns, this was major; It would scar eternally. It ripped up and down the right side of the boy's face; it appeared as if his eye had been melted over entirely. They'd have to spell it out if he was to live comfortably. His other eye was screwed shut, and the entire right side of his body had burns. His clothes had been meager, and ultimately unhelpful armor; they were burned away almost completely. He was barely decent.

The girl, strangely, was practically unscathed, and Draco considered the very Gryffindorish thought that the boy had protected the muggle girl with his body. It would certainly make logic out of the miracle survivors, if only a little bit.

The girl in his father's hands was given to an emergency officer who cast a barrage of spells, causing her to forget ever seeing them and sleep peacefully as she was taken by another man in muggle clothing, who raced over to the crowd of muggles at the other end of the house as a pair of on-duty aurors apparated in and began immediately scanning the area of the house.

"We've got to leave, we're not supposed to be here," his father said briefly, taking Draco's hand. "Stay still while I get us out of here."

Draco didn't know what possessed him. He supposed it was the strangely informal and rugged way his father was speaking that made it sound sane. "Father, the muggle boy, he's hurt!"

Hah. Like that was supposed to explain anything.

Apparently it did. "Grab his hand and stay still, you-" He grumbled some vague half-hearted insult, and before long the world was melting around them, and the familiar feel of apparition gripped his body.

* * *

When his body returned to consciousness, Harry had the luck of hearing an explanation of everything that had happened to him.

"The perpetrators were caught. Wannabe followers of the Dark Lord, giving the muggles 'what they deserved'... damages are heavy but reparable. Spell used was Fiendfyre, which rebounded on the caster, the bastard. Good riddance." The huff of what Harry assumed was an auror, and the familiar chill of a voice he recognized.

"I see," Lucius Malfoy said noncommittally. "And the… muggle boy, Healer Joneson?" Harry could feel Lucius's eye twitch as he uttered the word 'muggle', as if speaking of a dog's doings.

"He'll recover, thanks to your son," Joneson said, shocking Harry into silence. "His body's sustained loads of burns, and I can't safely remove the scars of them all, unfortunately. His eyes are non-functional, but we're looking into a magical eye for him, considering he's bonded to your son."

Harry tested his non-existent eyes with a silent screech of unhappiness. How was he supposed to kill the dark lord blind?! Heck, he didn't even know how he'd eat breakfast blind! Wait, no, magical eyes… he soothed his nerves and listened.

"Yes, about that…" Lucius drawled. At least Harry knew where Draco's grumbling tones came from. "I don't suppose there are any ill effects of having a human familiar? After all, it's rather… unheard of to have one that is of equal or superior intelligence."

Joneson hummed thoughtfully. "I don't believe so, no," He nodded. "It should be suitable. Bonds are formed by a bridge between the magical cores of two beings, so the only difference is that the muggle will be able to store about the same amount of magic a wizard can. Since he's a muggle, of course, his body won't accept the magic, so Draco should have no problem accessing the magic as if it were his own."

This alarmed Harry even more than the loss of his eyes. He didn't want to think what would happen if Draco tried to use his magic… although, considering how his life went, it wasn't an unwelcome change compared to the other things in his life. It was far more enticing than being attacked by wayward professors, ripped souls, or basilisks, no matter how much he wished he wasn't bonded to Malfoy. It would be annoying, and at worst painful, but he'd dealt with being beaten by the Dursleys before his Hogwarts letters. He could deal with Draco… and if he hurt Harry, he could pull Draco's magic.

Wait…. MUGGLE?

He tested his magic gently; no, it was definitely still there, thank goodness. He felt the magical bond, which reached out of the room and into another, probably where Draco was.

"He's waking up," the Healer said suddenly, bringing Harry to his senses. As the tingle of diagnostic spells trickled over him, he suddenly had a very stupid and very ridiculous idea.

One; nobody here recognized him, meaning his facial disfigurement was great enough that nobody recognized him as Harry Potter.

Two: being Draco's familiar meant he'd get to go to Hogwarts.

Three; Ditto to above also means that he would get to escape the pure torture that was his tireless life of running between an abusive family and the world's expectations. Since nobody recognized him as even being magical, he highly doubted Ol' Voldy would have a rat's ass of a chance at finding him. And anyways, no-one would believe that he willingly became Draco's familiar.

It was a rather easy decision; he'd roll with it in a bid for freedom. Maybe he could fake amnesia?

Just then, he heard Draco's voice calling through the house. "Father? May I see him now?"

"Quiet, son, he's just waking up," Lucius scolded, "but yes, you may. Enter quietly." The steps approached and finally slowed at the door, and Harry felt the solid, familiar magic rolling off of the person next to him, standing stiffly at the edge of the bed.

"Do you know what happened to you?"

Harry chose his words carefully. "I was running… from the fire. There was a girl... Is she safe?"

Draco snorted at him. He could imagine Draco's expression now. "Yes, Alice is fine. I'm sure you'll be interested to know that your eyes have literally melted out of your face."

Harry gulped. "I know. The… healer? Joneson? Said so. What's all this about a familiar bond? Sounds like something from a fantasy novel."

Draco's magic smirked. He didn't know how else to describe it; the strange magical signature literally felt like it was smirking with a knowing smugness, something so Draco it made Harry want to roll his non-existent eyes. "Here's an answer; I'm a wizard. You, somehow, have become my familiar, which means you're basically a storage space for magic. I'm looking forward to being able to manage stronger spells." Harry faked a light gasp.

"Prove it," he breathed, eager to see how Draco would go about it.

There was a sudden pulse in the bond, and Harry felt a surge of magic being pushed into his body. He breathed in sharply, then settled, finally resting when his body accepted the new magic. It was a bit different from his own magic - separate somehow - but it was proof enough.

"Alright, I believe you." Harry said quietly, a stray hand tracing a line over his neck as he tenderly felt the alien magic inside his body. It felt so strange, yet somehow… it was alright.

"Good," Draco said firmly. "Now. You do understand this means you'll have to be fully obliviated from the muggle world?"

"Muggle?" Harry tried, feeling rather sheepish. "Obliviated?"

"We'll have to make non-magic folk forget about you existing," Joneson explained gently.

Harry gulped fearfully. "There's… no need. I have no family; the place I've been staying is so big, the homeless come and go freely, people will quickly forget about me. I honestly didn't expect to survive the fire when I went in; I figured I'd die within the hour." He waited with bated breath as the information was absorbed.

"Alright," Lucius said at last. "That saves the ministry some heavy work. Healer Joneson, please patch him up while Draco and I go and get him a magical eye."

"Magical eye?" Harry parroted out of genuine curiosity.

"Yeah, so you can see," Draco responded nonchalantly. "You aren't going to see much without any eyes, right? And anyways, you'll be able to see magical signatures, too. You'd better tell me what mine looks like."

Harry nodded numbly. "Alright."

"Colour preference?" Draco inquired idly as he walked to the door.

"Your choice," Harry replied softly, smiling to himself. "I'm your familiar."

"I suppose you are," Draco smirked back, before leaving Joneson to work on Harry in silence.

* * *

It was three days later that Draco walked into the room and Healer Joneson returned, warning Harry only a few moments before he was knocked out again to have the eye placed in his unmelted socket.

His other eye had been sealed and patched up to just be smooth skin, and while his burn scars remained, they had been soothed and magicked sufficiently that he probably didn't look like walking death any more. He assumed any old scars he had on his body were burned away; he silently thanked lady luck for burning away the infernal scar on his forehead. He'd laid there for a long time, and they still didn't know who he was; he hoped that it would stay this way, just him being a random muggle homeless who happened to respond positively to Draco.

He lifted his eyelids an hour or so later and saw the world in a new light. While his sight felt a little bit like looking through a tunnel or at a television screen, it was functional, and he could see Draco and Joneson and Lucius and Narcissa standing over him. Taking a deep breath, he said, "I can see. Thank you."

He rose to a sitting position and stared at Draco for a good few moments. The aura around him was a pure snowy white, which reflected against other lights in rainbows. He stared a bit more at the awe-striking sight before moving on to the others.

Apparently Draco's snowy rainbows were unique; Lucius's magical core was tinged a sort of stormy greyish-blue that was tainted with blacks around the edges as it was directed around him. He was casting spells, removing Harry's dizziness and adding a wakefulness spell for good measure.

Narcissa's magic reminded him of a blooming flower. It wasn't like Draco's or Lucius's at all. Hers was a beige-coloured core tinted with reds and yellows, but it flowed out in petals, which was why when he first saw it he was reminded not of fire but of roses.

Joneson was unremarkable, but his magic flow was a gentle shine that poured out of his wand and strengthened Harry's frail body. He cast Joneson a smile before ignoring what he was seeing anew for what he could see before.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I'm sorry you had to go to such efforts for me. If there's anything I can do…" He trailed off. He wasn't used to making deals like this.

"Don't worry about it," Draco soothed quickly, a strange act considering who was talking and their history. "We've pulled you from the muggle world. We can at least make you comfortable."

Harry announced solemnly, "It's me who will owe you." and it was true. Here before him was his chance to escape the life of Harry Potter.

"Fine," Draco caved, "but don't expect me to start asking you to risk your neck." Harry shot him a bright smile and swung his legs over the side of the bed carefully, examining the room briefly before getting to his feet.

"Anything I should know?" Harry inquired, and Draco looked incredibly pensive for a moment.

He nodded. "Lots. I suppose I'll be spending the next few days getting you acclimated, and by that time we'll be off to Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?" Harry repeated in a scandalized tone, snickering beneath his mask of horror. "What sort of place is named after a pig's skin disease?"

Draco laughed, and for once Harry felt it was not out of obligation but because he was legitimately funny.

* * *

"So.. what does my aura look like?" Draco asked as they sat in the library. Harry was quickly devouring books, eager to get a review on the magic he'd been so out-of-touch with all summer long.

"Hmm?" Harry paused, then remembered Draco's question. "Oh, it's beautiful, very unique."

"Go on," Draco leaned forward.

"Well, it isn't really like either of your parent's…" Harry hedged. "Narcissa is your mother, right? Hers is like a fiery flower, blooming out in petals. Your father's looks like a stormy sea, and his spells are tinged with an inky black, and yours is… well. It's sort of…" he bit his lip, thinking about how to describe it.

Draco's face fell. "It isn't pink, is it?"

"No, no, not at all," Harry assured him quickly. "It's not masculine, though, if that's what you're asking. I guess… it's like snow. Pure, white snow that melts into water tinted with rainbows."

"Rainbows?" Draco repeated incredulously. "You mean to tell me my spells look like rainbows?"

"I'm sorry?" Harry replied nervously. "It's true. They're beautiful."

Draco sighed dramatically. "At least I'm as beautiful on the inside as I am on the outside," he announced forlornly, flicking his hair. "Thank you…" he paused. "I never asked your name."

"It doesn't matter." Harry told him. "I don't mind what you call me."

Draco stared at Harry for a long moment. "I'll wait on it," he decided. "Until there's a defining quality…"

Harry nodded mutely and returned to his reading, quickly being absorbed back into an enthralling tale about the discovery of the first faerie.

He was shocked out of his book when Draco grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him up on his feet.

"What?" Harry sputtered, panicking. "What are you-?"

"Oberon," Draco said clearly, smirking at Harry's small stature. "It fits."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Does it mean something?"

"He was king of the faeries," Draco explained very seriously. "He was cursed to be really short."

Harry groaned.

* * *

It was a week later that Harry was first taken out into the magical world.

He and Draco had fallen into a comfortable companionship, strange as it was. After reading up on 'pureblood manners', at the insistence of Draco and his family, he realized he probably looked like a dolt. Not that Draco wasn't, but it probably looked bad from both sides - two idiots shouting at each other.

As Harry delicately worked a brush through his hair ("You've got to tame that beast on your head," Draco proclaimed,) in an attempt to get rid of the peskier knots, he commented, "So… about your rival." It was always 'rival'; saying 'Harry' would just be too strange.

"Yes, Oberon? What about him?" Draco responded idly from his mirror. Harry had nearly gagged at the sheer amount of gel he used in it, so Draco had obliged by trying a new hairstyle. Harry figured it fit him better. He didn't look like… well, a girl any more.

"What did you say to him?" He inquired, frowning at a little tugging bit in a curl behind his left ear. "I mean, before you offered your friendship?"

Draco looked at the edge of protest, but sighed and gave it some thought. "Well, I first met him in Madam Malkins," he said airily, "where I was chatting to him about my family, since we were both alone. Then this great, hulking man showed up in the window and I began to tell him about Hagrid, and I was about to go on about how Dumbledore practically forced him into slavery when he left." He frowned. "You think it was the comments about Hagrid? I don't like him, but maybe it came across as mean?"

"I think it was both," Harry told him honestly, sighing in relief as one of the final knots fell away. "Think about it. You were boasting about your wonderful family, and he's sitting there, remembering how his parents died before he could even remember their faces. He probably thought you were mocking him."

Draco paused. "You might be right," he murmured unhappily. "And then I… insulted the Weasel to get him to leave before he badmouthed me - and offered my friendship. I must have looked like I was trying to insult him. Dear Merlin."

"Weren't your rival and the Weasel friends?" Harry commented. "I don't know about you… but when you lose your family, your friends replace them. He was probably highly offended."

Draco groaned. "I knew there was a reason he refused me," he mumbled. "I… I honestly thought he was trying to mock me. So many people saw that, saw him smart-mouthing Draco Malfoy, I just totally ignored why in favour of being dignified while the entirety of the student body gave me odd looks."

Harry sighed softly. "Well, now you know. Come on, you can show me around Diagon Alley. There's no point dwelling on it."

He got up and followed Draco as they left.

* * *

"Oberon and I figured it out, father," Draco said softly as they walked through the manor. Lucius raised a delicate eyebrow but said nothing. "About the boy-who-lived, and why he refused my friendship."

"This again?" Lucius expressed, immediately taking on a stressed expression. "Draco, I thought I told you to give up on this. How many times is it now that you've brought this up? Honestly, Narcissa was beginning to think you were writing more about Potter than about yourself."

Harry politely covered his mouth to prevent himself breaking down into a giggling fit.

"But I actually figured it out this time!" Draco whined. "I… well, it was when I was in Madame Malkins, and-"

"Yes, we'll go there so you can sit in the seat he sat in and grumble," Lucius interrupted. "Now shut up about Potter, for Merlin's sake, and act like a Malfoy, not a whining child."

"Yes father," Draco replied quickly.

"To be fair," Harry said quietly, "I was the one who brought it up. Sorry, sir."

"Don't do it again," Lucius scolded desperately. "I can't remember how many times I've had this conversation."

They reached the floo, and Harry gripped Draco's hand, stepping into the fireplace with him.

His thoughts trailed to how nobody had actually held his hand like that since Hagrid, before he was distracted by the burst of green flames.

* * *

"That there, that's where I met my rival," Draco explained, pointing. "We'll get you fitted soon, come on, we'll get you an owl afterwards."

"An owl?" Harry pronounced, before being dragged in by the wrist and pushed into a chair.

"Yes. Full wardrobe, please," Draco said smugly, watching as three women immediately pounced. Harry shot him a displeased look before sitting still and waiting for the pricking sensations to end.

* * *

"So then Blaise was taken directly to Dumbledore, of course," Draco smirked, sitting on the chair next to Harry as they fitted the final set of clothes. While Harry did, admittedly, like green, silver and black, he very much preferred other colours, and so it was a relief when the stray blue or purple found its way into the elaborate sets of clothes. "I believe that's the most embarrassed he's ever been."

"I can't say I blame him," Harry commented, sighing in relief as the final set fell away and folded itself. "Right, what's next?"

"We're getting you your own owl," Draco explained. "Both because I think you'll want a companion other than me and because otherwise people will accuse me of enslaving you or whatever."

Harry hummed in idle agreement as he watched the clothes disappear with a snap, likely to the Malfoy Manor. He followed Draco out of the shop and was grabbed by the wrist again, pulled away to the Magical Menagerie.

Walking in there again for the first time in a while, Harry immediately found himself captured by magical auras. It was a literal rainbow of cores, though none were quite like Draco's, with the snow and the rainbows. There were lots of different magics, and they differentiated in how they expressed themselves, from the petal-esque blooms to the rolling wave-like magic. He turned and froze at a sight he didn't think he'd see again.

"He's been sick," Ron explained, handing the rat - Scabbers - off to the lady at the counter. But no; it couldn't be a rat. A rat didn't have an aura that powerful. It was packed in, jagged and rocky, and the free magic was coursing desperately over the rat's fur.

He took a moment to observe Hermione and Ron. Ron's magic was, strangely enough, Slytherin green; it shimmered like floo powder, and it moved about like someone was pouring wind into an hourglass. Hermione's was different; her magic was a calm lavender, and seemed not to express itself strongly, remaining quietly still in her core.

"Draco," Harry hissed, "There's something terribly wrong with that rat."

"What?" Draco whispered back. "I don't understand, Oberon, it's just a rat."

Harry shook his head. "It can't be just a rat, it's got the magical signature of a human being! And furthermore, all its spare magic is being used! Like it's casting a spell!" He turned. "Is there some way it could be a human?"

"It could be an animagi," Draco paled. "I don't like this. I feel obligated to tell him, even if it is the Weasel we're talking about. What should I do?"

"I'll talk to him," Harry soothed. "You can pretend you don't know me if you're uncomfortable."

"Alright." Draco gulped. "I'll be over here, looking at the snakes." He shifted to the coiling serpents and Harry walked calmly up to his friends, reminding himself that they didn't know him.

He supposed that his friendships were the sacrifice he made for a calm, loved life. While he knew he'd make the decision to leave again if it were offered then and there, he would never abandon these people. They were the ones who cradled the tattered remains of his person and restored him, after all.

"Excuse me," Harry interrupted, walking up to the duo at the desk. "This… rat. Is he really a rat?"

"Of course he is!" Ron seethed. "What, are you mocking me for not having an owl or whatever? Scabbers is a fine familiar!"

"No," Harry breathed, frowning and ignoring Ron's outburst. "It's magical signature does not match that of a rat."

He saw the creature visibly quiver in fear, and his eye narrowed.

"What do you mean?" Hermione inquired seriously. "Is he transfigured?"

"I would assume as much," Harry agreed. Gripping the rat gently around the middle, ignoring the gobsmacked expression of the receptionist, he placed it on the ground and held it by the neck, quickly thinking about how to go about this.

Draco walked up behind them. "What's this, Oberon?" he inquired haughtily, Harry smirking privately at the act. "A rat?"

"Unidentified magical signature," Harry replied. "Mind checking for me?" Draco rolled his eyes but complied, pulling out his wand daintily and pointing it directly at the terrified creature.

"Oberon, brace yourself," he whispered, before muttering a few quick words. A burst of blue light, and a fierce tug at Harry's core, and the rat began to squirm.

"Everyone back away!" Draco called, even as he levelled his wand and pulled on Harry's magic. Harry took a soothing breath and focused on letting it happen, even as he felt his legs tingle from the loss of the magic under his skin, and shut the door tightly, guarding it as the rat turned into a man.

"I can explain!" he cried, his hands shaking. The man looked rather seedy and Harry curled a lip in distaste as he began to rant.

"Veritaserum will decide," Harry announced seriously. "Just shut up before you make it worse and let authorities cart you off…"

"Peter," he breathed, "Peter Pettigrew. I escaped Sirius-"

"I don't care," Harry replied disdainfully. "Draco, what are we going to do with this guy?"

"I'll bind him," he said resentfully. There was another flash of his wand and a muttered "Incarcerous," and the man was bound in ropes.

"Stay here and watch him, Oberon," Draco glared at the man, "This guy has a lot to answer for. I need to floo father." He walked off primly, leaving Harry with Ron, Hermione, and a rather pale-looking woman who seemed ready to faint.

"Merlin, he slept in my room!" Ron cried, paling quickly. "For once, I think I agree with Malfoy!"

Hermione looked strangely pensive, her hand at the ready to pull on her wand when and if she needed it. "While we wait for Malfoy to get back," she commented, "I suppose we can introduce ourselves. I'm Hermione Granger, and this is Ron Weasley. Who are you?"

"Oberon," Harry replied, his eyes never leaving the bound and terrified form of Peter Pettigrew. "You think he needs more bindings?"

"It's a good idea," Hermione agreed. "Petrificus Totalus!"

Harry winced. "Thank you." He glared at the unmoving, bound body and wondered again why his life was never normal. "Hermione Granger, was it? I appreciate the help."

"Oh, it was nothing," she replied modestly. "You're Oberon? How do you know Malfoy?"

"Unusual circumstances," Harry replied vaguely. "It will likely be explained at the sorting."

Ron huffed. "Bet he bound you somehow, little bugger thinks he deserves the best," he hissed. "You a muggleborn?"

"Just a muggle," Harry replied quietly. "Did you know that you're a seer?"

"Say what?" Ron frowned, raising an eyebrow. "You're a muggle? Huh, didn't think Malfoy had it in him to even consider talking to muggles. Why'd he even get close enough to muggles for whatever happened?"

"The explanation he gave me was rather vague," Harry hedged, "but I believe there is indeed a magical bond between us."

"Knew it," Ron hissed.

Hermione, however, was more interested in the other comment. "Oberon, what do you mean Ron's a seer?"

"His magic flared," Harry explained, pointing at his eye. "Draco gave me this so I could see magical signatures."

"Really? What do they look like?" Hermione inquired eagerly.

Harry paused. "Yours is somewhat gaseous and the colour of lavender," he explained. "It's rather calm, for magic. It doesn't flare with your emotions the way others do." She nodded happily, absorbing the information readily. He fondly considered what she'd do with that information; knowing the viscosity, temperament and even colour of one's magic came in handy for some of the more subliminal and idle magics. She'd be buried in books on the subject before the day was through.

"And mine?" Ron inquired, not one to be left out.

Harry smirked internally. "Green, like floo powder. Like a bunch of sand in an hourglass, being blown around." Ron let out a wail of despair as Hermione laughed.

At that moment, Draco marched proudly through the floo, his father in tow. The older blonde looked rather exasperated, but his expression snapped to a disdainful, uninterested gaze the moment he confirmed the identities of his company. With a grand swish, he levitated Pettigrew, bowed and walked out again.

"Don't forget to buy Oberon's pet," he called dismissively as the floo flared and he and Pettigrew disappeared in a burst of green fire. Draco nodded to Oberon and the pair walked over to the snakes.

Harry ignored Ron and Hermione's ensuing discussion in order to listen in on the snakes. They were all chatting rather quietly to each other, commenting on the 'rat-man' and he took particular notice of a few that expressed their respect for the swift and deft way the humans had contained him.

"See one you like?" Draco inquired hopefully. "You can have snakes channel magic, you know, brilliant skill. Magical snakes are very intelligent, they could protect you." Harry stared at him for a moment before nodding.

"It sounds like an incredibly useful skill," he replied fondly, smiling at the snakes. Contrary to popular belief, Harry really liked snakes, even if most of them were out for his blood. A few of them hissed appreciatively, coiling around to look at the newcomers.

"If you want one, I can get you one along with your owl," Draco offered. "You'd have to take care of it, though."

Harry nodded, still looking at the snakes. "I believe I will get one, if that's okay." Draco puffed up in approval, and for a while they merely browsed, scanning the snakes and cats and birds that lined the walls of the shop.

" _Idiot wizzard,_ " one hissed, getting Harry's attention. _"Behaving as the sssuperior when it is he who isss the inferior."_

Harry glanced around and approached the cobra slowly. It coiled around itself in the confined space, eying Harry with two beady black eyes.

 _"What do you want, ssspeaker? Do you ssseek a more competent and ressspectful familiar?"_ It inquired, raising its head to observe him.

 _"I am in hiding; Draco iss part of my dissguise,"_ Harry explained quickly. _"I am hoping to take up care for one of the sssnakes here. I am currently hiding asss a non-magical and familiar."_

At this statement, a few snakes turned in curiosity, but most interested was the cobra he'd addressed. " _I would be willing,"_ she stated, tilting her head. _"Your life sssounds an exciting one, at leasst. It is rare that we ssserpentss find a ssspeaker."_

Harry nodded, holding a hand to his mouth in a signal for silence. "Draco?" The blond turned from observing the owls to raise a delicate eyebrow. Harry pointed to the cobra, who raised her crest, and soon they were leaving the shop, the four-foot snake curling along Harry's arm, his other one occupied with a cage which held a milky eagle owl, which he named Puck, despite Draco offering him a long list of 'pureblood' names. He decided not to explain that it was the name of a character in the muggle copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

* * *

"Wake up, Oberon, we're going to Hogwarts!"

Despite being a wizard, those words were still among the most magical in his vocabulary. He shot to his feet immediately, throwing on his robes as quickly as he could. Puck had already flown to Hogwarts ahead of time; once he'd calmed down a little from Draco yelling through the door, he slowed to brush his hair and adjust his hogwarts tie, which was set automatically at a silvery-green.

Dumbledore had been surprisingly accommodating to Draco and Harry's situation. An extra bed had been placed in Draco's dorm; Harry, as Oberon, would also be allowed to attend Draco's classes if he so desired, though it was by no means necessary. He'd even overlooked the rules and allowed Harry to bring his cobra; he'd given her the English name Selene, considering her Parseltongue name wasn't something you could pronounce in English.

Said snake slithered up his arm and hung heavily on his wrist. _"You are too thin, wizzard,_ " she commented disapprovingly. " _You ssshould eat more."_

 _"Oncce I am at Hogwartss, I will be having a feasst every day,"_ Harry replied idly, adjusting his magical eye. _"Let uss join Draco downsstairss."_

Selene bobbed her head in agreement and coiled back up his arm, adjusting herself over him within his robes so both were comfortable. They'd talked and decided it would be best that she did not reveal herself unnecessarily, since she was a rather intimidating specimen. Harry paused to feel for where Draco was, following the strand of magic down the stairs and into the dining room.

"Come on, we've got to hurry so we don't miss the train!" Draco cried, too excited to bother being his usual polite and uppity self. Oberon nodded, quickly joining them and eating as quickly as he could while remaining polite. Morning routine over, the two boys raced to the floo and mumbled threats as Narcissa checked them over.

"Oberon, the books you were reading have already been taken to your room in Hogwarts," she informed him gently. "Remember; as his familiar, keeping Draco safe is your first priority."

"Yes ma'am," Harry replied. "I won't disappoint."

Draco groaned. "When will you stop telling him that? I don't need a nanny, Mum."

Harry snickered, listening to Narcissa's ensuing tirade for two minutes before clearing his throat and saying, "Shouldn't we be going?"

"Oh, yes," Narcissa replied absently. "Here's the powder, Draco, hurry along now and remember to write us. And if I get one more letter about Harry Potter-"

"BYE MUM!" Draco interrupted, grabbing Harry's hand and pulling them both in. Dropping the powder, he cried, "Platform Nine and three quarters!" before Narcissa could so much as protest.

As the green flames died away, Lucius commented, "Our Draco seems rather attached to his muggle, doesn't he? He even went to wake him up this morning."

"Aren't we all attached to our familiars?" Narcissa replied, drifting gracefully into a chair across from her husband. "I'm sure they'll be fine, Lucius. He's probably just happy to have a confidant he can trust fully. Oberon loves him; he'd never reveal Draco's secrets. You know Oberon's occlumency is strong."

"Too strong," Lucius huffed irritably.

"It protects Draco as well," Narcissa added, smiling. Really, she'd already won the argument; they didn't say it, though.

* * *

A/N: Burned and Blinded. A personal favourite which I play with a lot in my head. Some pure, innocent drarry (haha as if 'pure' and 'innocent' can really be used to describe _any_ drarry) with pseudo-handicapped Harry and plenty of parseltongue. Fun to write, don't know if it's fun to read though.


	6. Harrison Franz

Summary: At age eight, Harry is abandoned in London. Not three weeks later, he's adopted by an aging old man futilely attempting to redeem himself for abandoning his wife and children. One year of quiet joy passes before the old man dies, and Harry is on his own. Raised and tutored alone in a giant estate, Harrison Franz enters Hogwarts at age eleven, new, improved and completely different.

Rated K+, may bump to T later

* * *

Harry felt his stomach rumble, and winced. Even at the Dursley's, he'd never been this hungry. It was times like this he debated the pros and cons of being abandoned, but he was quickly reminded of the frequent beatings, the endless chores, and suddenly being hungry and cold was nothing at all.

Still, however, it had struck him that day - just a few weeks after his eighth birthday - that the Dursleys truly did not want him. They had left him to fend for himself in a wild, confusing world. He could still see, in his mind's eye, their car, chugging off into the distance, disappearing on the horizon while he watched with wet eyes.

He slipped easily through the crowd of street-folk and reached the store he'd been frequenting. He had been 'working' there since day three of abandonment; the workers there, while unable to pay him for his hard work, were often able to slip him the tail ends of meals if he was lucky. He could only do odd jobs and make smaller meals in the kitchens, but it was much better than wasting his time starving on the streets.

Jacob, a college student studying business, was his main donor. Quickly diving behind the counter, another waiter shifted slightly and pointed Harry in the direction of the kitchens, where he was sure to find Jacob. Shooting the girl a short smile, he flew into the kitchens, stopping right in front of Jacob, and gave the young man a winning smile.

"Here to help?" Jacob asked kindly. "Hey, one of the ladies accidentally ordered an extra salad. Want it? I don't care to waste perfectly good food." Harry nodded vigorously, and he went to one side, tearing into the food as quickly as he could while retaining some semblance of politeness.

Soon, it was time to work, and Harry quickly started in, helping the boisterous cooks create masterpiece after masterpiece.

* * *

Jacob watched the young waif with not a little sadness. He wanted desperately to bring this child to someone who could love him, but there wasn't much he could do beyond allow the boy to eat the leftovers and join them in the cooking, so he had at least a few survival skills. Who knows - maybe, someday, one of the cooks would start his own restaurant, and hire an older and wiser Harry onto his staff.

Turning back to his work, he nodded gently to the workers who shot him sympathetic glances. Balancing the plates expertly, he walked briskly up to his latest client, an elderly businessman who had decided, for some reason, to eat out today, though he rarely made waves in the community.

"Your meal, sir," he said politely, revealing the dishes with a teensy bit of flair. The businessman, Lord Franz, nodded and smiled, thanking him under his breath, so only Jacob could hear. Smiling, he went back the way he came.

* * *

Lord Franz was feeling ill. He could tell that his time was approaching; he felt it in the very air. He watched in an almost terrified fascination as his hand shook, trying to get food into his mouth. He was merely enjoying what would probably be his last few days alive.

As his sharp eyes studied the restaurant, he caught sight of alien movements and found his eyes drifting away from the expensive materials and towards the kitchens. It was difficult to see inside, but if he angled himself just right…

There was a tingling in his hand, and then he was suddenly thrown to the ground, stranger in his own body and helpless to defend.

* * *

Jacob heard the thud, and by the time the screams began he was already dashing over. Much to his chagrin, Harry was dogging his heels, his frail body surprisingly athletic. Diving to the man's side and restraining him, he asked quickly, "Any medication we can give him? Anything?"

The silence as he wrestled the man's convulsing body was almost painful to hear. So there wasn't anything to be done. He prayed to all that was holy that the man would survive; he'd been particularly friendly for a wealthy client. Such a nice man didn't deserve to die like so.

A tingling feeling rose on his back, and for whatever reason, he suddenly thought that he needed to move away so the waif could get at him. He was complying before he could even think it over, letting little Harry shuffle to the man's shaking sides.

Placing a hand on the man's chest, he asked, "Are you alright, sir?"

Instantly the man's features warped into relaxation, then a weak smile. "Yes, young boy, I will be." He turned his head to his shocked chauffeur, who had just run in during the commotion to see the boy soothing the elderly man's seizures with a mere touch. "Will you join me at my manor? I have a few questions for you."

* * *

It was a split-second decision to bring the child and ask. For some reason, he just felt that it was right, that it was meant to be like this. A boy would touch him and soothe his seizures in an instant, and he would ask to take him in.

His chauffeur and butler seemed gobsmacked by the suggestion, but he followed the request easily and the young waif was soon waving goodbye, joining Lord Franz on his way home.

Lord Franz noted the hopeful expression on the face of his waiter from the restaurant. As they drove off into the distance, he glanced at the frail, emaciated child sitting obediently next to him.

His luck has come, he thought. I won't let him down, young man.

* * *

It took three days for Lord David Franz to fully recover. In the time he spent bound to his sheets, Harry was welcomed graciously into the Franz family home. It was by no means huge, but it was strangely empty; no pictures adorned the pale-blue walls, no objects were too personal; it was all quite solemn and didn't feel like home at all. However, for one who had never had a home, this was as close as he'd ever felt to it, and so it quickly became a place he loved dearly.

A young maid, Helda, took a particular shine to him, taking on his care personally. The first day she had tucked him to bed and prepared his room appropriately; she knew, from the look on the chauffeur's face, that they may finally have an heir on their hands, and if she added a bit of extra flair from personal fondness… nobody needed to know.

The second day, Harry awoke and asked, "Am I dreaming?" With a shake of her head, Helda guided him through the house, explaining the situation. She quickly caught him up and began surreptitiously teaching him a few basic manners and skills; it would do well for him to make a good impression in case anyone came in the next few hours. None did, but she still felt proud of his progress as he bowed kindly to each maid and butler that helped him. He was already a favourite in the small mansion by the time Lord Franz's personal butler called for the young waif, stating that Franz wished to speak with him.

The room Franz was in was barely less plain than the others; it held a single photograph, of a small family, on a bedside table, along with a simple lamp. Harry gave Lord Franz a short and polite bow.

"I hope you're feeling better, Lord Franz," Harry said politely. He dearly hoped Franz found his manners adequate.

"Fret not, dear boy," the Lord replied, chuckling. "Just call me David. What is your name?"

"Harry, Harry Potter," the boy replied, shifting a bit. Lord David patted the side of the bed, and Harry reluctantly hopped up onto it.

"Harry, I know it may sound strange," he murmured, dismissing his butler silently. Once gone, he continued, "but it was because of you I am safe. My seizures are frequent and uncontrollable; I'll admit it was rash of me to go outside safety like that. I feel life slipping from my hands quicker each day." Harry looked incredibly concerned, a small, bony hand placing itself gently in David's.

"Don't worry, I've got some fight yet," David soothed. Once Harry relaxed, he continued, "you are unique, Harry, I can tell. Your very touch was able to cure me without a moment's delay. Do you know why?"

Harry tensed. Pulling his hand away, he replied, "You'll hate me."

"Never," David replied. "You saved my life, Harry. How could I hate someone kind enough to do so?"

Harry breathed out one long, shuddery breath. "Okay. I'm a freak."

This struck deep into David's heart. He knew those words.

As many elderly did, he recalled his own memory of that hated word.

* * *

 _His father, disapproving, glaring at him. "Look at you, you little freak, so weak. How could you ever continue my line? The Franz family will be a disgrace."_

 _"I'm sorry, father," David replied monotonously. Inside, he vowed never to be as such._

* * *

 _Himself, staring at his wife, at the toddler in her hands. "You know I need an heir," he said unhappily. "She is woefully incompetent. How will I ever continue my line?"_

 _"You won't," his wife hisses, and then she was gone, leaving him forever - but in that blind, pig-headed moment, he doesn't recognize the image of himself in the pair, and is left to despair over their return for many years to come._

* * *

"You are not a freak," Franz replied evenly. He chose his words carefully. "Why would you believe as such?"

"Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon told me so," Harry admitted. "I keep doing weird things. I'm bad luck."

Franz shook his head, but played along. "What sort of weird things?"

"Whenever I'm upset, or angry, or scared," Harry admitted, "I do weird things… I once teleported to the roof of a building. Another time I turned my teacher's hair blue. I levitated some toys once, until Dudley caught me." Franz didn't probe the subject. Bad memories were better left behind them, lest they hurt.

"Those all sound like wonderful things to be able to do," Franz answered softly. Jokingly, he continued, "I'm sure you could make a fortune changing the colour of people's hair with a moment's thought."

Harry seemed to consider that for a moment. "That would be nice," he admitted, a bit happier. "Does that mean… do you really not mind my freakishness?"

"Stop calling it that," David protested. "It saved my life. I'd say you were a very special child, Harry."

Harry shone like the sun.

* * *

By dinnertime, the staff were falling over themselves to shower the dear boy with love. He was waited upon hand and foot, and he continued to charm the residents of the household with his kind heart and shy demeanor. Harry took seat across from David, and together they ate in an amicable silence.

"This is some of the loveliest food I've ever had," Harry admitted. "Thank you, David."

"Thank the cook," David winked. He hadn't had this much fun in… in… he couldn't remember feeling this free before. Pulling himself up, he decided to be direct. "I suppose your parents will want you back."

"They died." David lowered his head and apologized quietly. Harry apparently had sharp ears, because he nodded as he heard it. "My aunt and uncle left me in London, so you can leave me there."

"Actually, Harry," David felt ever so young once more, so nervous and workable, "I was thinking instead that you might stay with me, as a Franz."

Harry's forest-green eyes, much like tenderly sun-kissed leaves, widened in shock. "Lord David?" he tried.

"I mean that I would adopt you as my heir," Franz clarified. "It would make you my family, and you would continue my line after me. We would live here together," he smiled wistfully. "We can go for walks during the day, be it sun or rain, and watch the stars in the observatory in the attic. I would teach you all I know. Please consider it."

Food forgotten, Harry took a deep breath and stared into David's eyes. It was as if the two eyes wished to catch any hint of a lie, wanted to know the honesty of the speaker. It probed at his mind gently, pulling from it his loyalties and honesties. Franz stared back, watching the skinny boy in front of him as he finally relaxed and smiled back. Reaching out, Harry's hand brushed against Franz's, and David's hand curled around Harry's.

"We're family?" Harry asked shyly.

"Yes," Franz replied, a glow of joy finding itself at home in the boy's words. "Family. In all but blood."

* * *

Helda sped down the halls, a trolley of towels and disinfectants in front of her. She wasn't actually busy, but the faster she was finished the earlier she'd be able to start break.

However, a few stray notes hit her ears, and she slowed down. Cocking her head, she listened for a moment - a harp? Could it be?

Walking more quietly, she followed the slightly jarred tones of the harp through the halls, finally falling before a doorway in a room that only the cleaning staff had touched in years. The door was open, and hidden around the corner, Helda watched.

Lord Franz had not touched his wife's harp since she'd fled his home, not until now. Little Harry was on Lord Franz's knee, and Lord Franz seemed to be guiding his young hands over the strings, picking out notes slowly but steadily. She backed away, leaving the pair to their happiness.

* * *

The search had stretched out for a long time, but it finally completed a month later. Harry and David were called away from their walk suddenly, to meet a strange robed man at the door.

"Excuse me," Lord Franz began. "I believe you're on my estate uninvited. Please do introduce yourself to myself and my family."

"Of course, my bad," The man apologized, brushing down his robes. "I'm Jackson Stevens, a wizard. I'd heard about your miraculous recovery and your heir and had suspicions. Now I see him I'm sure - he's magical."

"We know," Franz confirmed. "Allow us to continue inside." He gestured to the open doors, and called, "Helda, Devin, please sort out this young man in the drawing room."

The two servants quickly ushered the young wizard inside, followed by Lord Franz and Harry.

* * *

"So you claim that my heir, my family, will face discrimination in this community of yours?" Lord Franz gave Jackson a hard look. "Why should I subject my heir to such, when he has a stellar future here, as my heir?" Harry gave his adoptive father a fond look, then turned back to the wizard to hear his answer.

"It does sound illogical at first," the wizard admitted, "but as your son continues to grow, his magic will, too. His accidental magic is incredibly powerful. It could prove dangerous to those around him. The only people who I know can help him are other wizards and witches."

Lord Franz nodded slowly in agreement. "And what do you suggest?"

"Hire tutors," he said immediately. "In England, you have three choices for education - Durmstrang, Hogwarts, and Beauxbatons. Only Hogwarts will accept your child, since he has muggle guardians, as only Hogwarts has a method of finding them. Hogwarts may be an ancient school with a good repute, but it's generally not good for teaching. He'll learn much faster outside of school."

"I will simply have him tutored, then," Lord Franz decided.

"Well, actually," the wizard admitted, "Hogwarts is a good idea as well. If your son ever wishes to move around in the wizarding world, he'll need to know who to avoid and who to be friendly with. Hogwarts will be able to offer him that."

"We'll see," Lord Franz said quietly, steepling his fingers. "We'll see."

* * *

"Harry, come here to meet your Charms tutor."

Harry bowed politely to his harp tutor and smiled fondly at the elegant harp before walking quickly out of the room and heading to the drawing room, where his father was sure to be.

Life had been great since Lord Franz had accepted him as his heir. He had tutors come in to teach him Manners, Business, Mathematics, English, and Music. His studies were going so well that David was considering having him take on sciences as well. That was, after he started learning magic.

The two of them had practiced a little with his skill; his limits, at the moment, were levitating objects and playing music without his hands. It took incredible concentration, but he was able to do it, and it never failed to stun his father. For once, he actually loved his skill, for it brought him the life and family he had now.

He stopped before the door and adjusted his vest and shirt, making certain that they were clean and uncrumpled. Satisfied, he opened the door and eyed up the tutor critically.

When he was with the Dursleys, he blocked off a particular ability he had, since it fed him constant painful emotions from the Dursleys. It let him read the surface thoughts on a person's mind; it was difficult to put into words, mostly because people thought in a very confusing jumble of emotions, reasoning, images and thoughts. However, glancing at the woman sitting on the chair opposite his father, he could easily say her mind was well-organized and that she was clearly trustworthy.

"Hello, ma'am," he greeted her kindly, dipping into a short bow. "I'm Harrison Franz. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"It's lovely to meet you too," the woman replied. Her musical tones were soothing to the ear. "I am Deltaine, a half-Veela. I will be your charms tutor."

Harry nodded and took a seat next to his father daintily. "Thank you for your time, ma'am." She nodded in agreement, and his father rose.

"I will leave you to it," he said regally. "Harry, have fun."

Harry smiled. "I will, Dad."

* * *

After the charms tutor came many more. Transfigurations, Care of Magical Creatures, Potions, it seemed endless. His father eventually decided to organize the tutors much like a school day, with each coming twice a week.

His potions professor was nothing like the brooding persona he'd expected. He was a cheerful sort with an eager glow about him, and each visit they reserved the cold room in the basement to brew. They started on weak potions and some sauces for use in the kitchen, painkillers and minor potions that simply affected a person's speech or appearance. For some reason, he had Harry learn the acne-clearing potion as quickly as possible. He rather enjoyed his time with Mr. Wellster, all in all, and potions was his favourite class - it reminded him of cooking, and the restaurant where he found his father.

His transfigurations teacher was also rather relaxed. She explained the theory in detail, making sure to include actual experiments to prove each, and give Harry a decent understanding of the practice. She also covered conjuration in detail; a week after they began, Harry was sitting in the parlor, casually conjuring blocks of stone that would disappear soon after his attention moved away. Each week, he would conjure crazier things, and soon they began to keep some of the conjured objects as memoirs, including a bird with popped into a pile of feathers once Harry fell asleep.

Charms with Deltaine was interesting. Her whimsical voice drew him in as he learned his magic, including how to take control over his levitation, which he had natural skill for. They learned charms to make things dance, charms to grow and shrink things, charms that could cheer people up or relax them. Harry heavily enjoyed using them on the staff for hilarious results.

Defense Against the Dark Arts, however, was by far his most skilled class. He learned quickly how to protect himself with his skills; his combat style was much like a dance, diving and spinning away from each attack gracefully. He had a way with magical creatures, particularly those based on honor and purity. He was growing, it could be said confidently, into a strong and unique individual.

It was six months later that Franz accepted that his son needed a curse removed from his head. It took a long, painful week abed, unable to speak or move, but when he left the magical practice happy and healthy, his father pulled him close, and all was right again.

He spent the bulk of his time with his father. They went on frequent walks around London, where his father would tell him about history and his personal experiences with the world, passing on his own fragments of knowledge. He told legends about their landmarks, made comments about castles as they drove through the countryside, joined myth with mystery in a complicated weave of words. These were the times, above all, that made Harry happiest, for they were a mark of his father, a mark that meant family.

* * *

Harry was nine years old.

Harry sat at the foot of his father's bed, holding his father's hand. It was cold, and had no strength to grip back. His father's face, however, was peaceful in death, which was more than Harry could have ever asked for.

"Thank you, father," he said gently. "For everything."

* * *

A/N: Harrison Franz. Ahh, this one. I have a thing for giving Harry a chance to be someone else. This is one of the more intimate and adorable fics - with plenty of angst and romance thrown in to boot.


	7. Professor Peverell

Summary: Harry Potter is done with this world... it's time to move on to another. A parallel universe fic with Professor!Harry and plenty of marauders and little Severus. Also, pranks.

Rated T I guess

* * *

Harry Potter was in an abandoned house at the end of the road, muttering over some rune-etched stones on the floor, while potions bubbled all around him.

The wizarding world wasn't getting better, only worse. He wasn't happy here. He needed a world that didn't worship the ground he walked on, a world where he could plant seeds in the minds of others and prevent the tragedies in this world.

He took a deep breath and checked the runes one more time, wondering why he'd never taken the class. Oh, right, he was young, idiotic, and impressionable. He'd taken the classes his friends had, because he was never told he'd need runes to save the world.

Or at least, another one.

Once he went, there would be no going back. He would forever be in the new timeline. He would simply have to do everything in his power to prevent the tragedy of the Second Wizarding War in the new world.

The magic flared, runes dancing along the floor as some of the potions started bubbling. He took the borrowed wand in his pocket out, stepped into the center, and began muttering a long list of incantations, getting ready for the final step.

With a thunderous crack, he raised his wand, and the potions fell from the cauldrons to him, smothering him in ingredients as magic long forgotten arose from the fumes. The runes sped to breakneck speeds, then suddenly snapped to a stop, before dissipating entirely, leaving nothing but a few stones, some overturned cauldrons, and a floating glob of green.

Then the green glob melted away, hissing with steam, and Harry Potter officially died. Sort of.

* * *

Magic was a strange thing. It had a tendency to know what you wanted as the end result, and often magic catered to the specific needs of a caster. Harry was no exception; his magic somehow just knew that the first place he needed to be was Gringotts. It was late at night, so very few noticed as a man exploded into existence in a back alley, the burst of magic unexpected, but by no means notable in the sort of way that got the Ministry on your back. They merely walked by, ignoring the dizzy man or the sparks of silvery magic that kept jumping from his wand. It was funny, looking back, though Harry didn't exactly enjoy the experience.

It was an hour later, after having finally got to his feet, that Harry sent up some disillusionment charms and sorted through his things. Grabbing the papers he'd prepared for just this purpose, he shrunk everything else into a bag slung around his shoulder and marched out of the alleyway and into Gringotts, which for some reason was still open at the ungodly hour.

He quickly reviewed what he would need to do. The papers, made with the aide of one of the

few goblins left in Britain after the war, would officially proclaim him heir to the most ancient and noble line of Peverell, therefore gaining him the vaults which had been locked for ever so long. He'd already participated, in the old world, in a very thorough blood ceremony. He was officially the Peverell heir, no matter who came to claim the title.

He cleared his throat to the goblin before him. "Excuse my rudeness and abrupt request," he apologized, as the goblin lifted its head to look at him with piercing, beady eyes. "but I need to have a blood test done. I've recently become aware that I may be heir to a most ancient and noble house, and I want to be certain."

The goblin nodded curtly and took the papers, inquiring, "Name?"

"Evan Peverell."

* * *

Two weeks later, Harry was sitting in his new house. He was going to get a job soon, he was certain. At Hogwarts.

He knew what he was doing. The number of DADA teachers, even at this time, were dwindling to pitiful numbers. He knew how to break the curse on the class, yes, but he'd keep it until he'd secured the position. He knew it was wrong, but he had to if he wanted to achieve his goal.

Anyways, he already had experience with Dumblebore's Army. It was hardly teaching experience, but it was sufficient for Harry. He knew he'd be able to succeed.

The Peverells, to put it simply, were loaded. Harry was sure lost fortunes in that vault could set him up for over twelve lifetimes, and that was saying something; wizards lived considerably long lives, longer than your average muggle by far. He didn't want to abuse the money, but he would be putting what he did use to good use.

It was time to prepare. He'd need some new clothes...

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was having a hard time. The last DADA teacher had mysteriously disappeared, as they always do, every year. It was getting frustrating. Not enough good men came in to try and take the position. He shooed out the latest candidate; he wasn't competent enough to care for children. He didn't understand the delicate touch needed for Hogwarts's youth. He couldn't let that last one teach, even if he was the second-last on the list. He might, at this point, have to hire the idiot that had come in yesterday. At least he was competent enough to teach children, even if he barely knew a thing about DADA.

He allowed in the final interview for the day, a Mr Peverell. He was fairly certain the boy was applying here as his first job, and very young. Moved to Scotland after his graduation with honours from a school in America somewhere, he was Dumbledore's last hope.

The man floo'd into the meeting room and immediately Dumbledore could sense the confidence and power. It radiated off this man like a calming wave, demanding your attention and yet being kind and gentle. He liked this one immediately.

"Mr Peverell!" He shot the man a bright smile. "Please, take a seat." Mr Peverell nodded, taking

the man's advice, and rested comfortably in the seat.

"Well then, I've been told you wish to become the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Dumbledore inquired, twinkling eyes studying the final potential teacher hopefully. He was young, but still... that power...

"Yes," the man replied, "I want to be able to teach the students how to protect themselves. The world is a dangerous place nowadays," he remarked softly, a sadness in his eyes.

Dumbledore nodded gravely in agreement. "Indeed it is. Now, tell me a bit about yourself."

"My name is Evan Peverell, head of the most ancient and noble house of Peverell," He began. Ah, a pureblood, Dumbledore considered. _I would eliminate for being a potential Death eater... but no. Let's see what else he has to offer._ He smiled as Peverell continued. "I come from one of the schools in Oregon, America, a boarding school there." He elaborated. "I took Defense Against the Dark Arts as my masters and passed with flying colours, leading a study group during my later years to help the other students."

Now that was impressive. Most just stated they had their best marks in DADA. This young man must have been one of the youngest with a masters in DADA in a long time, and furthermore he could lead others and teach. Dumbledore felt this one was right. He'd need more info, but a gut feeling told him this was the one.

He continued to chat with Peverell for a good few hours.

When Peverell left, he was no longer Mr Peverell but Professor Peverell.

* * *

Harry spent the remainder of his free time preparing lessons for all the years and working out how to deal with the horcruxes. He was worried that he wouldn't be able to teach them fast enough, but threw it off; he needed to do this, they'd need accelerated teaching. Furthermore, the horcruxes needed to be destroyed as early as possible.

He sorted out two sets; one for his first year teaching, to pick up the prior teacher's slack, and the other for the years after that where he'd be teaching. He needed to alter the mindsets of entire generations, after all. He'd wait for the holidays to strike and get the horcruxes.

He didn't stop working until the week before the sorting, when Dumbledore made a call and asked Harry to take over one of the teacher's duties for the day and contact muggleborn students. Harry complied, curious, and followed the instructions, introducing a good number of students to the wizarding world. Finally, his list reached a name he was dreading yet expecting, and his heart stopped for a moment as somber eyes hit the name on the page.

On the list was a girl named Lily Evans.

* * *

"Don't worry, Lily," Her mother said, though her voice was laced with concern. "I'm sure it was just a coincidence. Mr. Acker's hair turned blue for a reason, but that reason wasn't you."

Lily nodded. Petunia stared at her from across the room, awkwardly watching as Lily's mother played with Lily's long, auburn locks. She didn't like her hair. She wished it was pretty and brown and straight like the rest of her family. Maybe it would come true; it wasn't her birthday, but maybe she could make a wish early.

Just then, someone knocked on the door. Looking to the doorway, her father got there first, opening it and simultaneously rattling off, "Yes, how can I help you?"

The man in the doorway was dashingly handsome. He had a mop of wild black hair that looked untameable,and yet the windswept look fit him perfectly. He was tall and somewhat thin, she decided, though perhaps he was merely lean. Either way, he looked strong for some reason, almost as if he radiated power.

"My name is Evan Peverell," he introduced himself, dipping into a short bow. "from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I've come concerning your daughter, a Miss Lily Evans." Her father eyed the man incredulously.

"You mean the letter we received... it was real?" He frowned. "But magic-"

"Exists, I assure you. I'd be very happy to give you a demonstration, if you need convincing, although I can't quite explain the detailed mechanics in one sitting," he explained, still smiling brightly. Lily noted that he had eyes a bit like hers, although hers were more emerald while his were what it looked like when the sun shone through the leaves in the trees. They were deep, always moving and changing, but like most adults the emotion wasn't in his eyes, like his eyes had a curtain in front of them.

Just like Severus.

Father, after he watched the man do a few things with a pretty stick, let him in and waved him to a couch. "Repeat what you just showed me to my family," He asked, clearly overwhelmed. "So they knew it's real."

Mr Peverell nodded, waving his wand. In an instant, sparks flew from the tip of the wand, and then he proceeded to turn things different colours, make the flowers on the table grow and shrink, and even transformed his hair from brown to gold a few times.

"Incredible," Her mother said.

"Can I do that?" Petunia inquired, hopping up from her seat, where she was reading a book.

Mr Peverell looked sad for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry, but magic... it's a gift few possess. I'm afraid you don't have it." He paused, and a sneaky grin creeped onto his face. "However, I can always offer you some of the gadgets we wizards come up with, to make life easier. I'm sure you'll get plenty of chances to experience life with magic, since miss Lily here is a witch."

"A witch?" Her mother said faintly, gripping the edges of her dress. "Like, sacrifices and such nonsense?"

"Not the sort you're thinking of," Mr Peverell replied, shaking his head with an amused smile on his face. "No, though that sort of magic exists, Hogwarts would never teach it. Far too barbaric, the Dark Arts. I teach students how to defend themselves against said magic." He pulled a paper seemingly out of thin air. "Here is a quick rundown we offer to non-magical families about our world, and what is happening to your daughter, Mrs and Mr Evans. I suggest you read it over once I've left, another teacher will visit later to answer any questions." he passed it to the pair, who peered at it for a moment before putting it down and returning their attention to the enigmatic Mr Peverell.

"Allow me to continue. Muggleborn students - those born to non-magic folk such as yourself - are offered a portion of funds that will support necessary expenses during their time at Hogwarts. It's effectively the same as a scholarship." he paused to let that sink in. "However, extra opportunities, such as flying brooms, extra books, and the shops students third year and beyond can visit during trips to the local village, are to be paid for with the money of the family. You'll be able to exchange money at Gringotts bank, though I warn you to show utmost respect to the individuals who run it." He winked. "They're a touchy sort."

Lily was excited. She'd be able to go to a magic school! This was better than a new hair colour, definitely! Sev would be so proud!

* * *

Harry sat at his seat along the group of teachers, murmuring half-hearted good mornings and hellos to his fellow teachers. Slughorn had cheerfully attempted to get him close, but Harry was leery still of the man and politely refused a party invitation. Minerva was there too, her face slightly less abused from whirlwind emotions than in Harry's memories of her. He hoped to strike up a healthy friendship with her, naturally.

Professor Trelawney wasn't there; instead, a wizened man sat in the seat. He was quiet, and while Harry wanted to make a good impression on his colleagues, he decided it was pointless to try and talk with him, instead leaving him to peer tenderly over his folded hands at the students in the room.

The Great Hall was alive with chatter from the returning students as they waited for the first years to arrive. He heard many a voice mention his name and a few even pointed at him outright. He let his gaze wander over the students, peering at them with a sense of calm few ever achieved without having had to control every emotion possibly felt. A few noticed when his gaze locked with theirs, and he would give them a short wave before continuing to size up the students.

He recognized a few students already. Many of them he knew from the Aurors, having approached him with stories of his parents; He noticed a few others as well, however. He noted Lucius Malfoy sitting at the table with the other sixth years, and Narcissa Malfoy, at the moment Narcissa Black, just a bit away from him with the fifth years. He didn't have time to catch sight of anyone else.

There was a long, loud creak as the doors to the Great Hall opened.

* * *

James Potter glanced around, grinning from ear to ear as he walked into the great hall, Sirius just near him. Who would've thought that a Black could be nice like him?

He caught sight of some of the old family sons and daughters, waving to one of the boys he remembered meeting before and then to the teachers. A few responded, waving to all the students, really, but he could pretend.

He went along the teachers, recalling the legends around them. There was the ghost professor, Binns, the Transfigurations teacher, McGonagall... there was Professor Slughorn, the potions teacher, and Professor Flitwick, who many thought must have some mixed heritage, a charms professor. There was a rumour going around that Flitwick was actually a master duellist, but he wasn't sure. Could someone that tiny be a duellist? There was Madame Hooch, too, he'd want to get on her good side if he wanted in on the Quidditch team...

He skimmed over the others, finally laying eyes on the DADA teacher. The man wasn't someone he'd seen before; the last professor had apparently gone missing, like the long list of tragedies that occurred to the teachers in the position every year. He was young, probably young enough to be a student himself, and James had a feeling that he knew this person somehow. He couldn't quite put a finger on it... maybe it was the way his hair looked like it hadn't been brushed down that morning, or maybe the way the man's gentle green eyes gazed at the students, as if he knew something they didn't, something about themselves that they hadn't yet seen.

James liked this professor. He hoped when the curse took hold that this professor would be able to shake it off, or at least get away relatively unharmed.

Just then, the hat at the front of the room burst into song.

 _"In this new year we're filled with cheer_

 _I do so hope you're glad to be here!_

 _Hogwarts's walls are home for all_

 _Whose magic run free within these halls!_

 _You've heard me before, you'll hear me again;_

 _I sort those of you with a year and ten!_

 _Your houses, your homes, I choose them for you_

 _Just come up and sit on this stool!_

 _Your home may be in Slytherin_

 _Where stay ambitious minds_

 _Or maybe in dearest Hufflepuff_

 _With the loyal, hardworking and kind._

 _Perhaps in the house of Ravenclaw_

 _Where those of smarts and wit reside_

 _Or even in noble Gryffindor_

 _Brave and honest, with great pride._

 _Well, don't be afraid; each house is a home_

 _And whether you're unsure or have always known_

 _It's time to find a house for you!_

 _Welcome to Hogwarts, wizard's school!"_

James clapped along with the other students at the hat's quirky song, grinning from ear to ear. This was going to be fun.

As the names were called out, James felt a niggling at his mind as he looked back at the teachers, who were eagerly clapping along with the houses and teachers as people were sorted. He turned to look, but nothing was there.

Shrugging, he waited for his name to be called.

* * *

Harry had always known what the houses meant for people. He wasn't sure what to say, so he simply watched as he saw his godfather sorted into Gryffindor with James, the shaky look on his face, though he steeled himself into boldness. James marched around proudly; Harry found him to be a bit too arrogant, even if he'd known James would be.

Lily had waved at him as she trotted up to the hat, and he had waved back. She really was a kind child. He kept an eye out for people he'd known before, watching the Marauders particularly closely.

Peter Pettigrew, Harry noticed, was at this age chubby and nervous. He reminded Harry vaguely of Neville, but without some of the key traits that made Neville grow into the man he had been in the last timeline. He'd have to pay attention to Pettigrew, if only to try and salvage him from the Death Eaters.

Harry found himself watching eagerly as Severus walked up to the stool, holding himself as proudly as a boy such as himself could. He noticed the ragged clothes, likely charity, and cringed inwardly; he'd need to help Snape, too. Harry would never forgive himself otherwise.

Severus walked off to the Slytherin table dejectedly, glancing briefly at Lily before sitting down and being ignored by the students near him. Harry glanced around at bit, but when he returned to Severus, he noticed that the boy was staring intently back at him. Their gazes locked, and Harry smiled tentatively.

Severus pouted and turned away, and Harry sighed, returning to his patient observation of the students in the school.

* * *

A/N: The hat song in this story is a bit iffy. Usually I can do better than that...

Anyways, Professor Peverell. Lovely story. Lots of Marauders Era with a taste of parallel universe and professor!Harry. Yep, loads of fun.


	8. Ignotus's Notebook

Summmary: Harry, speaking to death, decides to go back in time as a Poltergeist and change his own life. He joins himself at age 4 in a little notebook which he resides in, advising Harry in all his ventures.

Rated K+ for now.

* * *

"So I'm dead."

Harry raised an eyebrow at the shadowy, bony creature, his spiky spine shuddering, as if in a laugh.

"Well, let's get to it. I'd like to meet my family at last." A rush of joy flowed into him, and he smiled to himself, ready to follow Death away.

"Not yet."

Silence.

"Why?" Harry demanded petulantly, though he retreated immediately from his anger. "Sorry. I've been waiting so long… I figured I'd meet them immediately."

Death shuddered again, and once more Harry was reminded of a shaky, cackling laugh, though nothing like Lord Voldemort's. Once finished, it said, "You have unfinished business."

"Is it rude to ask for an explanation?" Harry queried. "I _did_ kill Voldemort, you know. I just happened to die five months later from a rogue Death Eater's AK. What haven't I done?"

"Are you aware of the alternate universe theory?" Death whispered back.

* * *

So. He was actually doing this.

He must be mad.

Death had ever-so-eloquently explained that he often had souls inhabit objects to guide other souls in the right direction. Few had this ability, but, as fate seemed to like doing to him, Harry was one of those few. Death had then explained what he was to do.

Guide himself.

It was going to be eerie, talking to himself. Well, obviously, he couldn't return _as_ himself, so he was returning as a poltergeist; his magic would still work a little, thankfully. He could teach himself quickly.

No, no, he had to stop thinking of this Harry as himself. He had tested out a few very worn-out names that Death had suggested until finally he just decided to screw it and call himself Ignotus, after the man in the (true) tale of the Peverell brothers.

When asked, Death had laughed and explained that the three deathly hallows were not objects tying him down to any mortal capable of getting all three. They were instead his way of spreading a healthy respect of him and scoping out 'problems' like Voldemort. They had come into Harry's hands through pure coincidence.

It was the truth revealed that hurt, however. Truths he hadn't dared to touch in life; truths he never wanted to relive. Death, however, had been adamant; no secrets were to be left behind. And so, Harry had watched as memories flashed by, painful, terrible memories.

Dumbledore. Beneath the remorse, there was a flame of power, incredible anger hushed up and crushed, for no matter how much Harry wished to kill Dumbledore a million times, he also knew that visibly opposing the man would have left him in a familiar, if more literal, situation of Harry against the world. This time, at least, Harry would be wise to Dumbledore's manipulations.

It was without warning that Death deemed him ready and released him into a book.

* * *

"FREAK!" Petunia screeched. Wincing, a four-year-old Harry bit his tongue and crushed the pained cry that threatened to escape his lips as Vernon tossed him into the cupboard. He shuddered and weakly resisted the urge to sob, instead watching emotionlessly as the cupboard door closed, leaving him in darkness.

He rubbed his eyes and snuggled into his cupboard. Letting out a sigh far too heavy for one only four, he reached into his pants pocket and took out the pen.

He wasn't sure how he'd managed it, but he now had a pen. Dudley, returning from school, had complained that it was pink, and Harry had obligingly changed it to a much cooler green colour. Obviously this was the wrong thing to do, because now he was paying for it in the cupboard, nursing wounds.

He looked at the green pen in his hands and wistfully wondered if he could have a journal to write in. It wasn't an outrageous wish, although the Dursleys would convince him of such. He just needed somewhere to write.

It was at this moment that a pale glow began to emerge in his room. His first reaction was to shut the grates on the cupboard so nobody would see the freaky things happening in his cupboard; he'd done something freaky again and he didn't want to face more punishment. Turning back to the growing light, it seemed to sense his fear and lowered the light level, glowing in his room.

With a near-silent _pop_ , the light formed into a journal. Sighing, Harry picked up his new journal and put it on his knees. Pulling the cap off his pen, he opened to the first page and peered at it curiously. There was writing there.

 _Hello, Harry._

That was all. It was a little strange, but he was strangely happy; the book had addressed him by his name. He couldn't recall the last time someone said something other than 'freak' or 'boy'. Somehow, the use of his name endeared him to the packet of paper in front of him more than it did to his own flesh and blood.

 _Hello,_ Harry wrote back, carefully spelling it out. It was with shock that he watched words write themselves onto the page.

 _I suppose you're wondering about this journal,_ the words said. _Would you like me to tell you about it?_

Harry eagerly scribbled out a _yes_. A few seconds passed, and the journal began to write.

 _I am Ignotus,_ the words explained. _I was sent here to guide you, Harry. No matter what happens, I will always return to your possession. Merely wish it, and I will be there._

It sounded too good to be true. _You mean it?_ Harry wrote shyly.

 _Of course, Harry._ Those three words soothed him immensely. _Now, moving on to how to use this journal._

 _I am, put simply, a person to talk to. I can give you my opinion, talk you through problems, and help you learn. There are many things to learn that the Dursleys have taken away from you, simply because of their hate. I am here to give those things - comfort, a voice, a friend._

 _You're my friend?_ Harry watched with hopeful eyes as words began to glow.

 _Yes,_ Ignotus said. _I am._

* * *

Harry was six. Kindergarten was, to Petunia, a necessary evil; she warned the teachers constantly that the boy was abnormal at best.

The teachers took this, at first, to mean that little Harry Potter was a cruel delinquent, but no; they soon discovered he was something else entirely. While Dudley, the apple of Petunia's eye, got the slot of delinquent, Harry was nothing short of academic genius.

While they were forced to give him bad marks, all the teachers could easily see his hidden genius. His answers were spot-on; his speech was eloquent and refined; his body radiated trustworthiness. There was definitely something special about Harry Potter, but he was no delinquent, for sure.

What struck most teachers as interesting about Harry was his journal. He carried it everywhere, and often he would write in it, telling his teachers that it was his friend. Obviously the boy was a quiet genius, who used the book as an outlet, and so the teachers eventually began to let him write instead of listen, absorbing knowledge from seemingly blank pages.

The journal, as the other students knew it, was called Ignotus. It seemed to have all the answers; while none were dumb enough to forge a friendship with Harry and risk Dudley's vicious gang, smarter students often approached Harry when no-one was watching and requested to ask his well-loved book a question. Harry would smile, hand it to them, and leave five minutes later, the book having answered each child's question thoroughly.

One teacher, however, did not believe in the journal. Each class, he snatched it from Harry's hands, scolded him about paying attention, and left it on his desk. Harry would mysteriously retrieve it each time, but the teacher - Mr. Delvan - simply couldn't find any evidence that Harry had been there. Sometimes, it was as if the book had grown legs and walked away, returning to little Harry without fail.

Finally, he'd had enough.

"I've told you a million times," Mr. Delvan hissed, holding up the book by one edge and peering at it with a wrinkled nose. "Not to use this stupid journal in class. How many times is it now?"

"Twenty-seven, sir," Harry replied easily. "May I please have my journal back, Mr. Delvan?"

"No," He hissed. "I've had enough of this blasted journal!" He stormed away to his desk and grabbed a lighter from a drawer, flicking it on carelessly. One swish, and the book was up in flames.

Harry snapped.

The room whirled with an eerie wind. That was the only recognition that magic had been used; moments later, Mr. Delvan's hair turned blue.

The shriek of upset resonated through the neighbourhood. Harry winced and waited for punishment.

* * *

"Oof!" Harry bit his tongue immediately, squeezing his eyes shut as tears threatened to fall down his face. Ignotus had been burned. His precious book was gone. His ribs were broken by Dudley on the way home.

Vernon had kicked him until he was suffering sufficiently to be thrown in the cupboard without food. He was told to stay there until recovery, which seemed a long way away.

A glimmer of hope shone in his chest as he wished for the book once more.

This time, it was faster. With a glimmer and a _pop,_ Ignotus was on his lap again, as if nothing had ever happened.

 _You're okay_! Harry wrote happily.

 _For you,_ Ignotus replied honestly, _I will always be okay._

* * *

Conversation swerved from there.

 _It is time I inform you of your heritage, why Petunia and Vernon hate you so._ Harry gulped, but waited as the page flipped, so the words could continue.

 _A long time ago, there lived a happy family of four. There was the mother, Mrs. Evans; the father, Mr. Evans; their daughter, Petunia, and their other daughter, Lily._

Harry read, captivated by the story being told.

 _Lily, unlike most little girls and boys, was a witch. One day, while playing in the park, she met a boy named Severus Snape, who told her of her heritage, for he too was a magical person; a wizard. They were best friends during their childhood._

 _But magic doesn't exist,_ Harry wrote in.

 _Don't be silly, Harry. How else does my soul write to you in this journal?_ Ignotus pointed out. _Magic is real, Harry, and you have it. That's why they hate you, even if your gift is something to be proud of. But please, let me continue._

 _Go on,_ Harry allowed, rather sheepish.

 _When they turned eleven, the witch and wizard were enrolled in Hogwarts, a magical school in Scotland._ Ignotus paused, a dab of ink appearing for no reason other than to wait, as if someone was resting their pen on paper. _Hogwarts had four houses; Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw. Each witch or wizard in Britain is sorted by the hat test, which chooses a house depending on your personality._

 _Gryffindor, house of the brave, had a long-standing rivalry with Slytherin, house of the ambitious, going back centuries. This rift between houses separated Lily and Severus, for loving Severus was a Slytherin and sweet Lily a Gryffindor._

 _Which house am I in?_ Harry asked curiously.

 _Who you are can change randomly and rapidly,_ Ignotus hedged. _However, I would not be surprised if you fit into all four houses, Harry. You are just that sort of person - special, no matter what you do._

Harry nodded sadly, making note to ask again. _Tell me more about Hogwarts. What happened to Lily and Severus?_

Ignotus drew a picture on the page, a rather detailed image of a boy that looked much like Harry. _This is James Charlus Potter, the heir of the house Potter. He was leader of a group of pranksters called the Marauders, who were in school at the same time as Lily and Severus._

Harry watched the words with rapt attention. _James separated them further. He was blinded with hatred for Severus, and indeed all Slytherins, taking the feud of houses to heart, along with his friends Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew. They pranked him relentlessly, bordering on bullying, and Severus responded in turn with painful traps. Their battles were legendary._

 _That isn't very nice,_ Harry wrote, frowning. _Why would they hurt people?_

 _Harry, I hate to say this,_ Ignotus wrote, _but your father was privileged, and behaved much like Dudley. He believed he deserved everything he wanted - and he wanted Lily._

 _His action began when he was sixteen. He had Sirius send Severus off to die at the Shrieking Shack, where Remus Lupin, a werewolf, stayed during the full moon so as not to hurt anyone. At the last moment, James regretted the action, but it tore the trust between all of them forever. Severus sealed his fate when, in a bout of anger, he called Lily an unforgivable word, causing her to abandon him._

 _That's so sad,_ Harry wrote. _Why did Severus say mean things?_

 _Because, Harry,_ Ignotus put gently, _sometimes, people make mistakes. People like Severus Snape, who just wanted a friend, end up frustrated. His anger got the better of him and doomed both himself and Lily._ With a quick tap of ink, Ignotus added, _He did, however, regret it forever after._

 _What happened next?_ Harry inquired, the dark story pulling him in.

 _Lily was heartbroken, for while it had to be kept quiet, the pair had been in love._ Here, Harry noted that Ignotus's writing was unusually shaky. _You see, Harry, sometimes mean people will try and trick others into doing terrible things. James managed to trick Lily into refusing Severus's love, and then tricked her further into marrying him._

 _It was not a happy marriage, despite appearances. While they kept up a facade and disillusioned the illegitimate son between Lily and Snape to look like James, within their walls, the family fell apart. James trapped Lily in her own home, forcing her into a life on the run, trying to escape one of the darkest wizards to exist._

 _Who?_ Harry inquired fearfully, his pained ribs long forgotten.

 _Lord Voldemort._

 _Lord Voldemort went to their house on All Hallow's Eve. He murdered James and went upstairs, where Lily protected her son fiercely, to no avail. However, her strong love, combined with the magical power in the son and the weak shields of the disguise, rebounded the curse, killing the dark wizard and ending the war. The boy was renowned as the boy who lived, marked with a lightning bolt scar._

 _I'm the son!_ Harry wrote frantically. _I'm Lily's and Severus's son!_

 _Yes,_ Ignotus confirmed. _You are._

 _But Aunt Petunia said that they died in a car crash!_

 _Petunia is full of lies,_ Ignotus retorted. _She lies about everything. That's not the point. The point is, you need training. Your magic today changing Mr. Delvan's hair is proof that I can begin to train you. Be ready._

 _I'm ready,_ Harry wrote back eagerly.

* * *

Harry was eight.

He stood tall and proud. His clothes may have been baggy, but one got the impression that he was wearing a king's robes; if one looked, then they could see the glimmer of amusement in his eyes, the sparkle of joy in his precious, smooth-skinned face.

Ignotus would hover at his side, always by his side.

Harry's training, starting at six, had been preceded by nightly stories, some true, some false, some falling in between. The Peverell story was his favourite, mostly because his mentor's name showed up. Ignotus found that amusing. While other stories flowed and fled his mind, the Peverell story stuck fast to his knowledge.

Ignotus had finally revealed his physical form, of a somewhat faint poltergeist. He looked a lot like Harry; when asked, Ignotus explained that they were related, though Ignotus had died long ago.

Harry was eagerly awaiting meeting his living, by-blood father. While he waited, Ignotus tutored him on everything from Potions to Defense; Harry was quickly becoming a prodigy.

Without a wand, Harry had been forced to make his own focus. Of course, nothing the child could make would match the power and precision of a wand, but it would train him. It was with some surprise that they found kneazle hairs lying around in Mrs. Figg's house, and soon they also found some wand wood lying around - the sort Kneazles liked to chew on. It was by no means a master's job, but with magic coursing through it the amateur attempt was quickly fixed up to look and act like a proper wand.

Potions was by far Harry's favourite, for he could do it on the sly. He frequently took advantage of the kitchen, making minor potions to help his growth, nutrition, and stamina. To him, it was cooking, at least, his favourite branch of it.

Some weak wards defended his body from physical blows. A few charms gave him tiny bits of power he needed to push away larger foes. He cleaned his cupboard every night. Bit by bit, Harry's life had been improved, and while he was still emaciated, beaten, and emotionally tortured, life was much better with Ignotus.

Harry breathed out, smiling at the cloudy sky. He liked rainy days; Dudley hated them, and often ran off before he got a chance to hit him. Turning back, he watched curiously as a girl with long, bushy hair packed books into her bag. They would never fit.

"We've got to go, Hermione!" Her mother called. "It's going to rain!"

The bag glowed a bit. _Magic?_ The books flowed in instantly. "Coming, Mum!"

Harry watched as the small family raced into the house across the street. Curious, he sat on a swing and pulled out Ignotus, writing in his question.

 _Can I tell her she has magic?_

 _Not yet. Befriend her if you can, though, and defend her from bullies. I believe you'll have a lot in common…_

* * *

A/N: Such a touching story... awh. I like this one. Just don't know where to stop with it. If I ever continue this one, the first chappie will be even longer.


	9. Richard Weasley

Summary; Harry Potter. Most depict this child as a black-haired boy with a lightning scar clear on his face, in a single zig-zag. The real Harry Potter is red-haired and his scar is like true lightning, scattered and spidery across his face. At age nine, Harry meets a group of red-haired boys like himself, and the resemblance is striking. Once they find he's able to tell apart the twins, they induct him into the Weasley family unofficially; however, Harry takes it seriously, adopting the name Richard Weasley, given to him by the eldest Weasley boy. Throughout the two years that ensue, he constantly introduces himself as Richard Weasley, though all his documents state Harry Potter. When he goes to Hogwarts, however, he is surprised to find his letter is addressed to his Weasley alter ego, and he eagerly goes to Hogwarts.

With the Dursleys arrested for child abuse, his money returned, and Professor Minerva McGonagall to guide him, he uses his money to pay for Hogwarts and heads in bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ignoring his true identity until he discovers his fame. No Horcruxes.

Rated K+

* * *

Harry sat morosely on the swing, nursing his leg quietly by himself. Red hair fell in front of his scar, a web of lightning-esque skin that strung itself over the right side of his face. Aunt Petunia often complained that the scar was impossible to cover up; Harry didn't tell her that he could; he merely pretended to use the cream she grudgingly supplied on his bruises instead of his scar. He didn't want people thinking he was weak; that led to bullying. More than he already got, anyway.

Today, Vernon had gotten frustrated waiting for his bacon and had thrown Harry against a wall until an ominous snap was heard; at Harry's almost-silent whimper, Vernon found his hold on Harry and threw him out for 'being ungrateful'. He wasn't grateful, that was true… but what was there to be grateful for?

"Hey, what's that you're sitting on?"

Harry looked up and saw someone who could be his brother.

The boy in front of him had hair just as red as his! And his face was just as pale, though he had a few freckles, too. His blue eyes matched gaze with Harry's green ones, waiting patiently for an answer.

When Harry was certain the boy wouldn't continue on to bully him, he said, "I'm sitting on a swing."

"What's a swing?" the boy asked curiously.

Harry didn't know how somebody couldn't know what a swing was, but he wasn't rude, so he explained it. "It's… it's a swing. You swing on it. Like this." he began to move back and forth, using his meager weight to coax the swing into moving.

"Is that fun? Like Quidditch?" the boy asked, watching Harry go back and forth.

"It's fun," Harry confirmed, unable to answer the one about Quidditch, for he'd never heard of anything called 'Quidditch'. "There's another swing over there, if you want to try."

The boy eyed it carefully, but once he was securely seated in the swing, he began imitating Harry's movements, and eventually he managed to get swinging right alongside Harry.

Harry didn't remember ever seeing this boy around before; he was hopeful that he could make a friend, if only temporarily. Shyly, he asked, "What's your name?"

"Ron, Ron Weasley," the boy replied, shooting Harry a lopsided grin. "Oh, the guys over there are my brothers and my little sister and me Mum n' Dad. I'm sixth in the family. You could say I've got a lot to live up to."

Harry looked over to where he saw a large family - all with red hair like his! - chatting and generally enjoying the day. There was the mother, a frumpish sort who was frantically fussing over a young girl, who'd spilled something on her shirt; the father, a man who was far too fascinated with the bench he was sitting on to care about what the rest of the family was doing.

There were three more boys, one who looked quite serious and altogether uptight, and two boys who looked exactly like the other - except, somehow, Harry could tell they were different, even as they approached. It wasn't how each looked, no, but in how they moved. There was a blatantly obvious dynamic between the two; one always stood a bit taller than the other, one always grinned a bit wider than the other, you could see who was who by the emotions that travelled between them each time their eyes met.

"Well," the grinning, hunched one mused, "It seems ickle Ronniekins has found a new friend, hasn't he, Gred?" He glanced up at his brother for approval, sharing a grin.

"You're right, Forge," The tall-standing, gently smiling one - Gred - agreed. "It seems we'll have to issue the test!"

"Fred! George!" Ron whined unhappily. "I just met him! You're always scaring my friends away!"

Friend? Harry was… Ron's friend? Now that he thought about it, it made a little sense. Smiling, he steadied himself and wondered what the test was. He wasn't losing his first friend because of a silly little test.

"It's easy!" They cried in unison, grinning at Harry as his swing slowed down. "All he's gotta do," George pulled himself up to act like Fred, and Fred hunched down, finishing, "is tell us apart!"

Harry smiled. That was easy, and not painful in the slightest. "You're Fred," he pointed, "and you're George." He smiled at their gobsmacked faces.

Grinning, the two said, "Dingdingding! You're right!" hooking each other by the arms, they spun around incredibly fast. "Let's go once more!"

This was tougher, but he could see a few more differences now. A surreptitious glance from George, and he pointed once more. "You're Fred, and you're George."

Now the twins seemed somewhat surprised, but Harry didn't particularly care. This was actually fun. "Once more," Fred requested, and they ran off behind Harry.

For a few moments, Harry waited. Eventually, he felt a pair of hands on his back, identical in almost every way. One, however, touched him more gently, while the other was more amicable as it connected with his shoulder. "Now, grab George's hand," they said together. Smiling, Harry reached out and grabbed the hand on his left shoulder.

The twins moved away, and for a terrible moment Harry considered the idea that he'd failed, but as they returned, he saw the smile on their faces. "He passed!" They cried, slapping Ron on either shoulder. "Now he needs a Weasley name!"

"Fred! George!" Ron whined again, groaning. "He doesn't need an extra name!"

"I'd like an extra name, actually," Harry admitted. "I don't like mine very much."

"See, Ronniekins?" George teased, rubbing his clenched fist affectionately against Ron's head. "It's time to ask Percy for a traditional Weasley name!"

Right on cue, the final Weasley brother walked up, asking, "What have you done this time?" He seemed resigned to the antics of the twins as they circled their older brother comically.

"We're just inducting a new Weasley into the family!" Fred said agreeably, smiling at Harry reassuringly.

"Let's see what name Perce'll give you, friend of Ron's!" George chuckled.

Percy rolled his eyes. "You asked permission?"

"If it's alright," Harry said shyly, "I would like a name."

Percy eyed him critically, shrugged, and walked over, studying him as if he were an experiment. It made him a little nervous, but something about him made him comfortable, as if he had nothing to fear.

"Richard," he decided firmly. For some reason, a smile touched his face. "Richard Weasley, you'd be."

"Richard Weasley," Harry - no, Richard - repeated giddily. It was almost… almost like…

Like family, a sweet voice, a voice of angels, whispered in his ears.

Even as he thought that, the twins marched each other up to either side of him, pulling him in with their arms. "Welcome to the family!" They cried, grinning from ear to ear.

Silently, quietly, something in Harry - no, Richard - changed.

* * *

The problem with magical documents was that they were constantly tracking a person; not a name or number, but the actual consciousness. When someone decided they did not like their name, and found another that they identified with more, the documents could change in a flash to accommodate the change in the consciousness. The problem was usually addressed via constant preaching of the importance of names, but that only ever reached pureblood circles, and even then the Weasleys never bothered to talk of the pureblood way of doing things. For this reason, Harry quickly renounced the name he only ever remembered his aunt and uncle using and rapidly began thinking of himself as 'Richard Weasley'.

At school, he introduced himself as 'Richard'. In the home, whenever people said, 'Harry, go clean the dishes!' or, 'Harry, go pull weeds in the garden!' Harry would quietly whisper 'It's Richard' under his breath. He wasn't Harry any more.

The manager of the Potter accounts, an elderly goblin named Feraxe, eyed the accounts with a bewildered expression. He couldn't imagine any reason Harry's name would change, but there it was - Harry Potter was now Richard Potter-Weasley, though even as he watched the Potter name faded into merely the names his parents had had. Massaging his headache, he considered his options.

Normally, he'd simply change them all back and be done with it, or go and visit Harry personally and ask him about it. However, he couldn't just go and say hi whenever he liked - Dumbledore made sure of that - so that was out of the question. He was certain, too, that many would try and claim Harry as their own.

Maybe he could leave it as is… no, Feraxe shook his ancient head, that wouldn't do. An idea wormed its way into his head, and with a quiet smile, he began working away.

A week later, if someone had checked, the Gringotts account would say that Harry Potter had suddenly moved to Australia, which everybody knew had the largest concentration of wizards in any country. He would be impossible to find. One might also find that a new muggleborn had been registered; a squib, who in actuality had no sons, daughters or spouses, had supposedly had a kid - the squib in question being an uncle in the Weasley family.

The muggleborn was registered as Richard Weasley, and strangely, he had a trust fund; ten thousand galleons a year was allocated to the boy, for one reason or another. If anyone was observant enough to note it, they would have noticed that this was equal to the amount that continued to leave the Potter accounts each year, but nobody was actually that observant.

Satisfied, Feraxe died a week later, passing on his secret to his diary, which was quickly shoved into the basement of his family home, and Griphook, young and inexperienced, never suspected a thing.

* * *

A/N: This was a story I started based on a few images I found on the internet, including ones about the lightning scar being like real lightning, and what would happen if Harry inherited Lily's hair. My friend ruined it for me last I tried writing it because she decided it would be funny to replace 'Richard' with 'Dick'... changed this from K to M in a heartbeat. *shudders* I need to think of a better, less corruptable, name for Harry's Weasley ego. Oh, and rewrite all the scenes she showed me, or else I'll have flashbacks to the horrid realizations every time I read this...


	10. Healing Magic

Summary: In the summer before fifth year, the Dursleys are attacked by muggle burglars. When he returns from the attic, he finds that the Dursleys are dead, and fearing for his life as well as wondering if he will be blamed, he takes his trunk and rides the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley.

Rated T (possible M)

* * *

 _BANG!_

Harry woke up to the sound of an ear-piercing scream.

Leaping out of his bed, he snatched up his glasses and wand, even as he heard foreign voices whispering to each other and the downstairs door opening. He freed Hedwig and rammed his bedroom door open, stumbling down the stairs.

Time seemed to slow as he observed the scene. The door was thrown open; it was raining, and dark, and even as he watched lightning struck outside, an ominous flash which revealed three lifeless bodies lying on the floor. Blood pooled in the moonlight, flowing freely from his dead relatives.

His first reaction was to mourn them. He hated them, sure, but they were still family, the only family he had. He didn't cry, but his stomach coiled around itself and destroyed any appetite he had. His second reaction was to walk back upstairs and get his trunk. Hedwig hopped onto his shoulder as he automatically packed up, too dazed to really think clearly about what he was doing.

He didn't know much about the blood wards around his house, but he doubted they were still working with his family dead. He considered waiting, then reminded himself that he didn't want to be found - and he didn't know how quickly his enemies could find him. He focused on getting away.

He closed up the doors first, turning off the lights in the house. From there, he grabbed a raincoat for the storm outside and snatched up some mildly useful items - a flashlight, a lighter, and a gold watch Vernon had bought last week after a decent promotion.

Packing up some food from the fridge, he walked out the door, Hedwig still on his shoulder. "I'll go to Diagon Alley," he decided. "Hedwig, can you wait for me there, girl? I'm sure your flying is more comfortable than the Knight Bus."

Hedwig nipped his ear affectionately and flew off. Harry watched her go for a few moments, then turned back to where he was standing at the curb and held out his wand.

The Knight Bus rushed in and stopped suddenly, making Harry wince sympathetically to whomever was riding. The doors opened, and Harry pulled down the hood of his raincoat a bit to hide part of his face. Hopefully Stan wouldn't recognize him.

Gulping, he faked a raspy voice. "Leaky Cauldron, please," he said, giving Stan a handful of sickles. Racing inside, he slid into one of the bunks and hugged his supplies close to him, stuffing his shopping bag of muggle supplies into his trunk.

Luckily, he managed to fool Stan, because the doors closed and the Knight Bus raced down the streets once more.

* * *

It was halfway through the hectic ride that Harry began watching the small family next to him.

Their son, holding a wand, was using magic.

He was fairly certain that any moment an owl would slam against the window trying to get a warning from the underage office in, but nothing happened. The boy continued to try little spells, little Lumos spells and simple hovering charms, things covered in first year. It captivated him long enough that he considered asking why the ministry wasn't breaking down the doors by now.

Finally, he plucked up his courage and called, "Excuse me, ma'am… how is he using spells?"

She turned to him. "Oh, didn't you know, dear? The only reason they know is because of a trace charm. We just took it off, no point in stopping youth from doing magic, not really."

Harry nodded. "I see. Um, if it isn't too much trouble, could you please tell me how to remove the trace charm?"

She smiled at him. "No problem." A few minutes, a spell, and a short discussion later, the trace was off.

"Thanks," he breathed out in relief. This was key to his escape, and to his hiding. Considering he didn't trust the Ministry to protect him, making sure they didn't follow him around was important. "I really appreciate it."

"Don't worry about it," she waved it off. "Oh, there's your stop, dear. Go on." Harry snatched up his things and raced out, jumping down the steps to the street and giving Stan a short wave over his shoulder. Listening to the wheels screech as the bus raced off into parts unknown, Harry looked at his wand and considered what he could do.

He needed a disguise, but what? He didn't know any spells to disguise himself with. Slowly, he pointed his wand at himself, recalling a former charms class.

The word, the wand, and the will… The three components of a spell. Well, since he didn't know the incantation, he'd just have to overpower it and say what he wanted and hope for the best. Thinking about what he needed, he said, "Disguise me!"

His vision went, red, then black, and then he was unconscious in the street, a high-pitched wail escaping from somewhere close to his head.

* * *

Harry blinked into awareness and groaned in pain. Experimental spells were the worst idea he'd ever had. When he noticed that he wasn't being rained on, he glanced around and pulled himself up.

"Are you alright?" He turned around to meet the voice. Tom… he was in the Leaky Cauldron?

"I feel fine," he rasped out. Drat. Now he actually had a cold. "What happened?"

"I found you out in the rain with some spell damage on your forehead," Tom explained. "You've got this huge charred scar over your right eye… what on earth were you doing that resulted in setting your head on fire? You do realize how powerful Fiendfyre is, right? It's incredibly dangerous."

Harry gulped. "I didn't know the correct incantation…wasn't going for Fiendfyre..."

Tom massaged his forehead. "Look, don't try it again, if it wasn't raining you would have burned yourself to death. Anyways - what's your name?"

Harry gave him a blank look. What was he supposed to say?

Tom eyed him up for a few moments. "You remember your name… right?"

Harry licked his dry lips and took a deep breath. He could run with this. "I… not sure. I'm a bit dizzy…"

"Do you remember anything?" Tom coaxed. "Anything at all?"

Harry focused on what to say. How much could he logically reveal here? How much so Tom didn't report him - how much so that Tom didn't realize his identity? Actually, how did Tom not know yet? "I was… running. I sent away an owl… then I was on the Knight Bus, trying to get here. Then it gets kind of confusing… I was experimenting with something." Shaking his head, Harry continued, "I was panicking, I think. Like someone was after me…"

Tom sat back down on a nearby chair. "Alright. Stay here until you've recovered enough to know what happened." He allowed. "I'll be back with breakfast."

"Oh, um, can I borrow a mirror, please?" Harry inquired. Tom nodded and walked off to retrieve the requested object, returning with a small hand-mirror which Harry checked himself in.

His hair was incredibly long. Harry felt a twinge of deja-vu from his less-than-exemplary childhood, where his hair had grown back after that terrible haircut, and sighed. While it did nothing for his manliness, at least nobody looking for Harry would know him from behind. At least his eyes were the same; his scar, however, had been obliterated, and in its place was a charred burn scar the size of a large orange. It must have been the scar Tom was talking about.

Once finished his breakfast, he went downstairs and was greeted by a rather disgruntled bird pecking at his face and landing on his shoulder.

"Hedwig? Look, girl, I'm sorry- OI!" He hissed as she poked at his face, expressing her unhappiness.

"Oh, is that your owl?" Tom called up. "She kept trying to fight the door."

"Sorry, sir!" He replied sheepishly, jumping the last few steps and giving Hedwig a soothing stroke. "She's probably upset that I let myself get hurt without her there to help me. She's a mother hen, really- ow! Alright, you little princess, I get it!" Hedwig huffed and turned away pointedly, though she continued to hover on his shoulder.

Tom chuckled. "Nice gal. Well, Mr. Amnesiac, what do you plan to do?"

"Not sure," Harry admitted freely. "I think I'll make up a name to use and try to get a part-time while I figure out what happened to me. You don't know any cheap rooms around here, do you?"

Tom shifted awkwardly. "There are some cheap rooms in Knockturn, and I was looking for an extra pair of hands for Tuesdays and Thursdays… but Knockturn isn't the safest place. You might be better off elsewhere…"

"No, I'll take what I can get," Harry decided, despite the shiver that ran up his spine. Anything to keep himself safe. "I'll check Knockturn later today. What sort of work would I be doing here?"

Tom smiled. "Just some background work - cooking, cleaning, the usual. I can manage bussing tables and taking orders just fine."

Harry nodded. "I can handle that. When do I start?"

* * *

Knockturn was a lot less terrifying than how he remembered it. It occurred to him that he was no longer entirely a child, so he wouldn't get stopped by hags, and the other creatures were simply somewhat misunderstood - a vampire here, a werewolf there, not a problem. He stayed alert, though, and finally found a small apartment complex with a rickety sign stating its name as only 'The Nook'.

Entering, he was met with a rather bored-looking teen who perked up when he entered. "Looking to rent a room?" he inquired eagerly. "I can help you out."

Harry nodded warily. "Just a small room. What are the options?"

The desk clerk ran him through the different rooms, giving a detailed explanation of each. It seemed that the Nook catered to vampires and werewolves, as well as some other dark creatures. The cheapest room they had was a fifty galleon room which Harry decided to rent. Transaction done, Harry considered quickly what to write on the page.

"Write me down as 'Bowman'," he decided. It was a rather obvious cover name, stolen from his Quidditch book. Bowman Wright had invented the snitch. However, considering the history education in the wizarding world… he was curious to see how many would make the connection.

"Remember, rent's due Friday after next!" the clerk called as he went up the stairs. Harry got to his door and opened into a room which seemed, to him, like luxury.

The room was not remarkable, nor was it interesting. It had a sitting room, a kitchen, a bedroom and an ensuite. It had a minimal amount of furniture - the sitting room had one couch and one table, the bedroom one bed and one bedside table, the kitchen far too large for the meager equipment - but as Harry unloaded his things, it quickly changed.

The food was stored in the kitchen. His muggle tools - the flashlight, his lighter, and some other simple things - were put on the table in the sitting room. He dumped his toothbrush and paste in the bathroom. His books and trunk were lined up next to his bedside table. Slowly, the small room became home.

Tired but happy, Harry collapsed into bed and slept.

* * *

A/N: Mmm, love this one, even if the title is shitty. I always get a kick out of throwing Harry into different careers... one of my favourites being healer and waiter. This is both, with a little bit of gay thrown in for good measure in later chapters. Lovely.


	11. Shatter and Rebuild

Summary: Dumbledore had a larger hand in Harry's abuse. When the vase charmed to generate hate is smashed, Dudley notices the change, having lived under it all his life. Crushed by guilt, and watching over Harry as he recovers from his last beating which left him crippled, Dudley prays for someone to come and rescue Harry. A ghostly figure approaches him in his dreams and pulls Harry into the dreamscape, asking them if they would be willing to make sacrifices to enter a new world, and leave their old one behind. Dudley, disgusted by the world he lives in, and Harry, hopeful for a new life, accept the offer, and are dropped into the Pokemon world.

Rated T (possible M) for mentions of abuse, etc.

* * *

Dudley Dursley, aged nine, glared at the vase with undisguised hate and horror.

He could feel a tug in his chest break as the smashed, and suddenly this terrible feeling filled his chest. Glancing at Harry made him sick to his stomach, and he was frozen in horror as his own father, the man he trusted with his life, proceeded to beat the life out of a kid just like him.

Harry.

He stared, now, at Harry's crippled body. His arm looked somewhat mangled, like it was bending in a couple of extra places; his chest was bleeding freely, and his leg was soaked in blood. It seemed bent the wrong way, as if it would snap at any moment. Harry's glasses were shattered on the ground; little bits of glass were on the ground, glittering in the blood, embedded in Harry's skin.

He didn't even know why he was here. It was late. His parents never scolded him on bedtimes, or anything for that matter, but he usually went to bed early. Reaching out, he picked Harry up. He looked more like he was seven than nine; obviously, Harry was weak and small and hungry and needed protection. Dudley was good at fighting, but he wasn't sure about protecting. He'd never done that before.

Another stab of that foreign, painful feeling. It hurt more than anything he'd felt before, and to escape it, he carried Harry to his room and put the unconscious nine-year-old on his bed, ignoring the blood seeping into his sheets.

He wasn't sure what to do. He felt like calling for his parents, but would they listen? They hated Harry. He knew that they would only help him as much as he could force them to, but maybe it was better if he just let Harry have some time away from his aunt and uncle.

Dudley felt sick again, and threw up in the sink downstairs before cleaning out his mouth with water and returning to Harry. Clearing his mind of his terrifying memories - memories where he was the monster, where his parents were monsters - he stared at Harry.

"Fr- Harry." He breathed. "Come on, cuz. Wake up. Don't ignore me." Dudley stared a bit more. His initial reaction to Harry's stillness, usually, would be to punch him until he made noise. That didn't seem productive, though, and he didn't want to hurt Harry. Memories of Harry Hunting invaded his mind, and he punched himself, just to distract himself from the mounting guilt.

"Please wake up. Please…" Dudley tested out the word, again and again. When Harry begged, usually, he got hurt… but maybe there was a secret behind it. So Dudley used the word please.

"Please save him… please help him. Please. Don't let him… don't let him…"

Dudley screwed his eyes shut, trying to deny his tears, keep them inside. Eventually, though, they were too much, and Dudley broke into pained sobs, true tears which echoed quietly. It was the first time he'd truly cried in a long time; the many tantrums had been acts, ploys to get his parents to do his bidding. This sort of pain needed real tears.

Dudley rested his head on his bed and fell asleep, listening to Harry's laboured breath and his own pain-filled huffs and sniffs.

* * *

 _Where am I?_

Dudley looked around. The strange dream quickly assimilated him into the world, landing his feet on solid ground. Brushing himself off quickly, he glanced around.

The grass swayed. Leaves drifted through the air. The night was cold and dark, and before him lay a lake which reflected the full moon, sending a shiver down his spine.

On the edge of the lake was a red-haired woman, her deep green eyes matching Harry's. Instinctively, Dudley walked forward and sat next to her, relaxing as the woman's gentle touch helped soothe his nerves.

"It is not your fault," she murmured. "I don't blame you for what is happening to Harry, Dudley. A wizard called Dumbledore charmed your whole family to hate Harry. The vase that broke was the object keeping your hate alive."

"I'm so sorry," he sobbed, leaning into her caress. "I never wanted to.. Never wanted…"

"I know," she soothed, smiling wistfully at him. "Dudley? Will you listen to something for me?"

He nodded his acceptance, looking up at the woman's sad face.

She sighed, staring up at the sky. "I wanted Harry to live a happy life… but when I died, I was told that he would never be happy in this world. He is destined to be beaten and broken no matter where he goes."

"There's nothing I can do?" Dudley cried.

"There's one thing," she admitted. "I don't know if you'll want to, though."

"Tell me!" he begged. "Please?"

The word seemed to transform her reluctant face, and in the brief flicker of thought between his begging and his listening, he thought that perhaps this is what Harry had always been trying to get from Petunia and Vernon.

"Both you and Harry would have to make many sacrifices." She breathed. "You would sacrifice, first, your life here. You would never return to your world."

Dudley felt that comment, and strangely, he felt no emotion attached to it. He actually kind of hated his life, so being freed from it sounded less like a sacrifice and more like a blessing.

"Next, you would have to sacrifice something to each other." She turned to him. "You would each gain something and lose something. There is a delicate balance in this, you see."

Dudley nodded quickly. "What else?"

She breathed out. "The final sacrifice," she paused, "is a memory. A memory… of a person."

"A memory?" Dudley shuddered. "Of a person?"

"Yes." She nodded. "I will ask the same of Harry. He's just about to enter the dream now." As she had said, a young, if healthier-looking, Harry walked in from thin air, staring at them for a few moments before joining on the woman's other side.

Dudley mulled over his choices as he watched Harry talk to the woman, hope glowing in his eyes. He traced the surface of the lake to calm himself as he carefully thought out his choices. What would he give up for Harry? Who would he forget?

At that moment, Dudley's mind worked faster than it had in many, many years. It sorted out his life, from the beginning to the end, listing the people he remembered, and the things he had that Harry didn't. Glancing back at Harry again, he watched the glasses on Harry's nose. Now that he thought about it, he'd never seen Harry without glasses before.

Unless he'd broken them, of course.

 _Glasses are probably a sore point,_ he mused, listening in as Harry mumbled about this and that. He seemed to be choosing something to give Dudley… but what could he give that Dudley didn't have? It should be Dudley giving even more to Harry, not the other way around. Not after the abuse Harry faced.

"I sense you have decided," she murmured, pulling both boys in close. "Please, say what you want to give."

Harry gulped. "I don't know what it's called," he admitted. "But…" he held out a frail hand, and slowly, a glow built on his fingers. He pulled over Dudley's hand and pressed the globe of light into his palm.

Dudley felt a river of power flow into him, powerful and seemingly endless. This sort of power… it filled him with an elated, complete feeling. He had no idea what it was, but it was wonderful. Finally, the globe dripped out the last bit of light, leaving only a small shimmer behind, and Harry pulled what remained back into himself, looking somewhat haggard but rather pleased.

"Dudley?" the woman asked kindly. He gulped. This was it. Now or never.

He owed Harry this much.

"My sight," he offered. "I want Harry to be able to see clearly."

She stared at him for a few silent moments, then smiled. Dudley smiled back, even as he felt the world leave him, and he was plunged into darkness.

"Your gifts," the woman, her voice coming out from the darkness, "will stabilize once you move on to the new world. Now - your memory. It is all that is needed to complete the journey. Focus on all you know about the person and pour their memory into the lake… then, and only then, will you wake in the new world." Nodding, Dudley reached out, touching the water's surface. He slowly formed the image in his mind.

His father.

It pained him, but his new, fiery hatred fueled his efforts, as he pulled memory after memory from his head, feeling lighter and lighter as he did so. Finally, the last image, of a man no longer someone he knew, was dropped in the lake.

Dudley felt something blanket his body, and fell into darkness.

* * *

When they woke, Dudley was greeted by a new sensation. His body was filled with an unknown power, which fled to his eyes as he opened them, recalling his blindness.

 _It wasn't a dream! The woman actually saved us!_

The power filled his eyes and he stared out at the world.

The strange power that Harry had given him seemed to give him a type of sight not his own. He glanced around, the world in blacks and gentle, glowing blues. Glancing down, he saw the unconscious form of his cousin highlighted in bright greens, much like Harry's eyes, and raced over, his hands gently nudging Harry to make sure he'd made the journey across.

No blood. It seemed, too, that Harry had healed a little, but he could still feel the slightly mangled leg, the broken arm, the snapped ribs. He jumped back to give his cousin space as he heard Harry groan, massaging his forehead and hissing at his ribcage.

"Harry? Are you okay?" Harry turned to him and stared incredulously for a moment.

Gulping, Harry said, "I'm fine, Dudley, but what are we doing here? I remember you carrying me to your room after Vernon hit me…"

Dudley tried desperately to remember who Vernon was. Must have been the person he forgot. "Don't you remember the dream? I don't remember him. I sacrificed my memories to the lake, like the red-haired lady told us."

"The… red-haired lady?" Harry breathed, confused. "I've forgotten her. I forgot her. Who was she?"

Then Dudley remembered something from long ago. It was strangely poetic that he only remembered now.

* * *

 _"What's this, Mum?" Dudley asked, pointing at a picture. It was of Petunia, his mother, and another, red-haired girl, both of whom were holding sons. Neither were smiling, but the boys were giggling at the photographer._

"Oh, just my good-for-nothing sister and her brat, the freak," Petunia replied casually. "Toss it. We don't need to remember Lily."

* * *

Dudley's eyes went wide. Two people snapped into one.

Dudley had heard, once or twice, Harry's silent prayer for a family that loved him. That he did not remember Lily's final act of love…

Dudley pulled his cousin into a hug and cried.

* * *

A/N: Angst. Lots and lots and lots of Angst. And Werewolves. And Redeemed Dudley. If you don't love this already... you will. When the writing stops being shitty, ofc. And the title actually means something instead of being stereotypically angsty.


	12. Grimsy the House-elf

Summary: In his youth, Harry Potter becomes aware of house-elf magic, and begins using it amateurishly to help him with his work. A house-elf from Hogwarts arrives a few days later, imploring him to go to Hogwarts and join them, where he can study and learn. He agrees, and he is joined to Hogwarts by the house-elves, who realize he is heir Slytherin by conquest and heir Gryffindor by blood. This allows the house-elves to bond to him, and he requests something entirely strange; he wishes to hide in Hogwarts as a house-elf.

Adopted, therefore, by Tibbles, a local house-elf widow, he is named Grimsy and works at Hogwarts during his youth. All his secrecy goes downhill, however, when he - in his glamoured, house-elf disguise - is discovered by first-year Hermione Granger.

Rated T (potentially M for abuse, neglect, mentions and scenes involving slavery, potential character death)

* * *

 _From the diary of the house-elf Melbarie, in service of House Avery, 1934. Passed down to Melbarie's granddaughter and spirited away to places unknown.  
_

" _I is feeling that wizards is not entirely understanding house-elves and their natures. Perhaps they is not caring where house-elves come from or what we choose to do, but I is hoping that someday wizards and witches will be thinking that house-elves is more than convenient servants. It is for that reason that I is writing in this book about house-elves themselves._

 _We is not producing our own magic. House-elves is needing witches and wizards to bond to if we is wishing to live, for house elves need magic above all else. We is living, when homeless, in the most magical places possible, because we can be surviving of idle magic, and perhaps be finding new Masters in magical places._

 _House-elves is very good at being sneaky, sneaky. We is also very smart, even if we is not totally grasping words; we is thinking what we is needing or wanting, and other house-elves is helping us. It is that simple. We is also blocking out unwanted thoughts when busy, busy, of course, but we is mostly keeping mind open so we can helps each other. We is doing things behind cruel master's backs, and we is very good at making people ignore us._

 _House-elf magic is being very special because of this. We is able to manipulate any magic, any magic at all! It does not matter where magic comes from or how; as long as magic is, house elves is being able to use it. This is why house-elves is being so good at popping and magicking! We is merely needing to see the method, and then we can be's doing it!_

 _Many, many methods, house-elves know. We is sharing spells all the time, showing other house-elves how. Long lost magics we are able to use! House-elves think it very funny that masters think magic is lost. Magic cannot be lost; it merely is._

 _Wards are also being very silly to house elves. Why, house elves is merely moving magic, and nothing happens! We is strolling through easily, easily! No matter the strength, house-elves is getting through. In facts, all magic is being easily dissected by house elves. We is undoing spells for masters all the time, but no master ever seems to notice just how complicated a spell we is able to undo…_

 _Perhaps house-elves is not all powerful. Perhaps we is needing masters simply to live. But house-elves are not weak, nor are they things to be sold or bought. We is deserving respect. Perhaps someday, we will get it."_

* * *

 _August 2nd, 1988._

Harry Potter, aged 8, plucked up weeds from the garden. This job, among all his tedious chores, was his favourite; he got fresh air and sunlight, and the garden was always relaxing.

Eying the door warily, he turned back to a slightly wilting daisy and quickly wound a bit of glow around it. The daisy perked up, its petals spreading, and he smiled.

The glow was one of the freakish things his aunt and uncle told him not to do, but it was _ever_ so useful. After all, it had never done anything to harm anyone. Usually, he could tie the glow around plants to keep them alive, or use the glow to heal his injuries. And really, anything that could do that really couldn't be that bad… could it?

He breathed in the earthy smells deeply, enjoying being outside of that bloody cupboard for a bit. That wasn't an exaggeration either; he frequently got wounds from uncle Vernon tossing him in there, and he usually went into there where Dudley wouldn't go to avoid being attacked by Dudley and his gang. Therefore, all his wounds bled out in there, and the floors were always looking oddly rusty. It didn't bother him like it used to; he was merely glad the glow could get the bloodstains out of his clothes, so Aunt Petunia didn't complain about needing to get new ones.

He let out a sigh and carefully shuffled his way along, watering each plant carefully and using the glow to help up the drooping ones. Just as he reached to rearrange Petunia's treasured ivy plant into the design she desired, he heard a quiet crackle-pop and hopped a mile into the air.

Harry clamped down the yell that was about to emerge and huddled against the wall, watching the strange creature on the lawn. Was this… did he summon it or something? Had he done something freakish without meaning to _again?_

Clearing his throat, he said quietly, "Um, hello there. Can I help you?"

"Yes," the creature replied in a shaky, squeaky voice. "I is feeling magic here, and was wondering if a house elf was lost…" She shook her large head, bulbous eyes blinking at him in disbelief. "You is not a house elf at all! Were you using magic?"

Harry raised his eyebrow. "I… magic doesn't exist," he stuttered out. "Right?" Actually, he'd always doubted the truth of that fact, but he never questioned it out loud; he'd get a concussion from being whacked over the head if he questioned anything, especially magic.

The creature - house-elf? - huffed. "Magic is very, very existing!" It announced, and after a bit of silence, it continued, "Tibbles is taking youse to Hogwarts to teach you abouts magic. Youse should not be using magic without training!" It - she, he guessed - insisted.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Harry apologized, giving the ivy one last look. "I don't know if Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon will let me go, though."

"Why not?" Tibbles demanded.

Harry shrugged. "They don't like it when I go places. They say freaks like me should stay out of sight."

Tibbles looked vaguely horrified. "Freak? Youse is not a freak!" he felt a brush - the glow! She had it! - and nodded. "Youse is perfectly normal-" then she gasped.

"I told you," Harry said rather childishly, shuffling in place.

"Youse is needing a healer! If no-one has taken cares of youse, then I must!" Tibbles insisted. "What is your name?"

"Harry," he replied awkwardly. "Harry Potter."

Tibbles looked just about ready to faint.

"I wills be right back," Tibbles insisted. "Harry Potter sir wills be waiting here for Tibbles." With that, she disappeared in a near-silent crackle, only to appear moments later with his baby-blanket and a few broken pencils he'd managed to salvage. Her strangely comical eyes were narrowed and grim, and her large, flappy ears were drooping.

"We is going to Hogwarts," she said firmly, pushing the blanket and pencils into his hands and forcing him to drop the farming tools he'd been carrying. "Harry Potter sir is standing very still while Tibbles is popping Harry Potter sir to Hogwarts!"

"O-Okay," Harry mumbled, standing as still as he could while the house-elf marched forward and grabbed his ankle. A few moments later, the world detached from him, and quickly as it began he was snapped back into place.

"We is needing a house-elf healer for Harry Potter sir!" Tibbles cried, and chaos descended in the Hogwarts kitchens.

* * *

Harry vaguely remembered the events of the past three days, but his thoughts were fuzzed up with something called a calming draught and his memories were mostly limited to being shoved into a bed and told to eat whatever the house-elves gave him.

Somehow, the elves had detached a piece of magic from his head, all the while muttering constantly about the 'damages' and giving each other thoughtful looks. This magic had been shoved into a fireplace which was promptly set aflame by something that looked oddly powerful to _just_ be a fire, but Harry dismissed it, seeming as he did not have the capability to truly worry. Probably a side-effect of the calming draught.

"How is Harry Potter sir doing?" A young elf inquired, patting Harry's head wound with a damp cloth. He vaguely recalled that the first elf, Tibbles, had explained that his dreadful scar would heal over the next few years to merely a scratch, if it were visible at all. He was incredibly thankful; the scar always made Petunia look at him funny, as if he were something a dog did.

"I'm fine, thank you," Harry replied politely. He sighed, leaning into the gentle touch of the cloth, his flaring wound soothed by the fabric.

Tibbles hovered over the young elf's shoulder, watching Harry as he feverishly moved to request more care. The young elf silently conveyed a series of thoughts which Tibbles agreed to.

They could not hide Harry Potter sir as a human; they were also honour-bound not to leave Harry Potter sir in the care of the horrible, horrible muggles. They needed to find a way to have him blend in, so nobody would notice his presence.

But, Tibbles considered, broadcasting to the elf beside her, cruel, cruel Dumbledore would certainly treat Harry Potter sir badly if he were to pretend to be a house elf.

The young elf nodded sadly. The Hogwarts elves were considered the happiest in the world, but truly, it was the opposite. Dumbledore refused to bond to them, limiting their magical power so he could keep them in submission. He was an abusive master; many elves had the bruises and burns to prove it. While they were not forced to obey his orders by magic, they were beaten into slavery anyway. It would not be a good environment for Harry Potter.

However, as more elves entered the mental debate, it became clear there was no other option. Taking a deep breath, Tibbles stepped forward to explain to Harry Potter.

* * *

Harry looked at himself in the mirror. He honestly couldn't say the elaborate glamour made him pretty, or even look slightly better, but at least it was scarily accurate. From today forwards, he would be masquerading as a Hogwarts house-elf - Grimsy- adopted by Tibbles.

He loved Hogwarts. Yesterday he had been deemed healthy enough to walk around, and a younger elf - Holbs - had shown him around the castle. He was incredibly excited to be living here, and now he was sure he'd be treated better by his new family than he ever was at the Dursley's. He was ready to be a house-elf for the rest of his life, as long as he was able to escape his human family.

A/M: Mel is very tired. My womanly parts are hurting. ;-;

Apparently he needed to avoid Dumbledore. The elves had worked on him for an entire week to make sure he was in perfect health, but he still wasn't able to block entry to his mind like the elves could, so he was not to make eye contact.

Turning around, Harry walked to the kitchen and began to help out. It was the least he could do for his family.

* * *

"Tibbles," Harry inquired, after a particularly bad meeting with Dumbledore. The man had entered and had beaten up no less than six elves for disobedience (one had forgotten to put his utensils in the right arrangement, another had given him the wrong handkerchief, neither of which had been specified), four for ignorance, and another for fun. Harry had frequently pushed Dumbledore's cruel words into the back of his mind, but even so, his nightmares were plagued by an elderly voice whispering into his ear, reminding him.

 _You are a freak._

 _Remember who your master is…_

 _Fight back, and you will only make things worse._

He spoke like an angel with others. Harry was sure if he'd met the man as a human, he would have thought him wise and kind, but the truth - seen from the large, fearful eyes of bruised and bloodied house elves - was a dark and unyielding man, unable to see anything more than his own heroism.

Harry had heard multiple times the gloating words of Dumbledore as he sat in the kitchens for a late night feast, boasting about how he had placed Harry with the Dursleys, how he would use Harry as his pawn and draw him into an unwavering loyalty and send him out to die. It was his plan to have Harry killed and take the glory; his plan to take the Potter wealth and use Harry's titles as Lord Gryffindor and Lord Slytherin to communicate with Hogwarts.

"Why does Dumbledore want to communicate with Hogwarts?" he inquired softly, sitting with her in the house-elf 'dorms'. There was an unused wing of the castle which the house-elves lived in; they frequently called it the 'Elf House' as a joke, pretending they were students at Hogwarts.

Tibbles nodded sagely and wrapped a spindly arm around Harry, patting his shoulder gently. "Hogwarts is very powerful magical building,Grimsy," she explained gently, gesturing to Harry's bedroom. "Magic is everywhere here. If someone has Lordship to Hogwarts founders, they can talk to Hogwarts magic like house-elves speak. When you is old enough to attend Hogwarts, Tibbles is showing you how, so you can attend classes without anyone knowing."

"I still don't get why I have to hide," Harry mumbled.

Tibbles sighed, gripping Harry tighter. "We is not wanting to lose you. We is hiding you from Dumblydore as long as possible. Until you is graduating from Hogwarts, we is preventing Dumblydore from knowing you is here. Then you is taking over Hogwarts. It is your inheritance."

Harry nodded, rolling his eyes at the frequently repeated information. "I know. I inherit the land automatically with the dual lordship, and I need to be ready. I'll be careful, Tibbles. I just wish I could help you more."

Tibbles shuddered and stroked Harry's head. "Grimsy?"

"Yes, Tibbles?"

"There is something you can do. But you must be waiting for your birthday."

"That's in a month and a half, Tibbles." Harry pointed out.

Tibbles nodded. "I know. Just wait."

* * *

A/N: I've always liked the idea of Harry being so much like a house-elf that he literally pretends to _be_ one. I had not approached this story before due to the sheer amount of background knowledge needed. An understanding of my own version of magic in this version of the Harry Potter universe would be required to have a clear and concise understanding of the story, without needing to wall of text from the characters themselves.

I solved this problem with the excerpt from Melbarie's diary at the beginning of the story. If I continued this story, the excerpts would indeed not be the same each time, and I would state their authors, and furthermore the fates of the books themselves, as a subtle explanation as to why the deeper understanding is not kept by the wizarding public. I'd love to know how readers feel about this solution, as I had a great deal of fun writing this excerpt, and indeed some other sample ones that would be needed for future chapters.


	13. Elemental

1

* * *

Harry was apathetic. His mind was on shutdown, as if he were merely a spectator in a memory - and perhaps he was. After all, it was summer - and surely, snow didn't fall in the summertime?

He'd been beaten again - he could tell by the pointed redness of the snow beneath his feet - and his body refused to move. His eyes wandered around the trees, trying desperately to see something, though what he wasn't sure. He just knew that there should be something there - something that wasn't. Something warm in a way that tingled in your chest, sparkled like a candle in the depths of the night.

He felt his mind draw back once more, and he stopped thinking altogether, succumbing to the familiar ease that came with the cold, numbing his pains and leaving him empty and free.

* * *

A meaty hand balled into a tight fist, reducing the red skin to white strain as the man's face turned purple. Harry shuddered in the corner, his bare feet touching the layer of snow in the room.

"We will not tolerate freakishness in this house, boy," Vernon growled. Dudley and Petunia had run for the hills - but Vernon was too late. Frost had sealed the doors shut, snow dragged him down with each thump of his feet as he fought to reach Harry through the endless cold that swallowed up his cowering form like the protective arms of a mother he'd never had.

He looked down. The floor was stained with blood; he hadn't had wounds this deep for a long time. Even as he looked, crystals of ice came to be on his arms and legs, reaching forth to seal his wounds. Keep him safe.

Safe.

Looking back up at his uncle, he felt the heat of angered breath on his cheek and recoiled. It burned, seared his face like a lick of fire to his skin; And, in his desperate state, all he could think of was the need to get away.

A cold wind helped him to his feet. A great push of snow heaved up against the glass of the back door and pushed it off its hinges, letting him race weightlessly over the snow and away from his uncle, ice marking his steps.

* * *

With a lazy sigh Harry brought back the wind instinctively, let it surround him in a whirl of snow and caress his burned face, easing his pounding head.

Yes.

Cold.

Good.

He began walking, feeling the snow follow him through the forest - was there a forest near Privet Drive? He didn't remember one, but he didn't care. Here, there were no expectations, just cold comforts and simple safety. He pulled himself up to how he knew he ought to stand, withstanding the pain for just a moment before ice trailed down his back and held him upright as he wandered.

He blinked away tears. Where did those come from? He didn't want to cry. He let a hand wander to his face and froze it. Better. No more crying. Nobody likes crying. He wouldn't cry.

He stumbled forward again and felt the snow rise to meet him, push him back to his feet. Smiling, he rose with a fluid grace and felt the awkwardness leave his body; he didn't want to stumble, and so he would not. He kept walking, feeling his clothes stiffen as snow layered it. It was soft and comfortable, unlike the scratchy rags, and soon he was covered in snow. It was like a welcoming embrace to him; sweet, soft, and easing his pain without a second thought. Breathing out, he broke through the edge of the trees to a lake and blinked at it.

He didn't know this lake. However, it was nice; clear, still, constant. Slumping, he dropped down at the edge and reached out. His hand breached the surface, and as it touched the water crystals of clear, pure ice froze around it in beautiful patterns, swirling out over the lake. Harry smiled and began to guide it around, making little patterns and drawings in the water to pass the time.

He was at peace.

* * *

Pain roared through his body. He bit his lip until it stopped, refusing to scream even as blood fled from his mouth, tasting the red substance with apathy. It was a familiar taste; his nightmares frequently brought him to this.

Rising, he stared at the room. Hogwarts. He thanked whatever deities watched him for letting him get it out of the way without waking anyone and fell back into the darkness of his own mind.

* * *

A hand touched his shoulder. It was not uncomfortably warm like Vernon's stinging strikes, and he stayed still, appreciating the contact as much as he could. He wanted touch, desired it beyond anything; it was only his fear that stopped him. He would not risk more injuries than he could afford.

"Young?" A calm, youthful voice asked. It had a melodic lilt to it, like a flute. "Why are you- oh." The sound of someone clearing their voice as they watched Harry mess around in the snow and ice. "An elemental…"

Harry couldn't care less what the person was saying or doing. He had his snow. He was safe. He didn't care.

"Will you be here when I come back?" The voice asked.

Harry looked up. The aristocratic man seemed a bit worried. Strange. "I am happy here. Why would I leave?" he asked rhetorically. He'd never felt so carefree. It was intoxicating, calming, perfect. Indeed - why would he?

"We must get you to safety," the man offered. He was lean and had long fingers, fingers which drummed over Harry's right shoulder. "People might find you here. You could get hurt."

Harry frowned. "I have my snow," he explained slowly. "I am safe. My snow protects me."

The man sighed. "I see. Will you… mind ever too much… if I take you somewhere else? It is safe, too, and you can… have your snow there." He didn't seem to know what he was talking about. Harry didn't blame him; how could you voice something like this? Something so beautiful, so simple in its perfection?

Harry gave his ice pictures one last look. "Okay," he allowed, standing up, the snow rising with him and falling once he had his balance. He stared expectantly at the man until he began walking.

A serene smile on his face, Harry took the man's hand and let himself be led away.

* * *

2

* * *

"FATHER!" Torius screamed, bursting into the house. He glanced back out the door in frantic concern. He'd managed to hold his concern in whilst in the young elemental's presence, but now that the boy was safe, just within the wards of his home and lying in the snow that had suddenly appeared early that morning. "FATHER, WAKE UP! IT'S IMPORTANT!"

He had been taught when very young that elementals were terribly rare. They were regulated by the Ministry; it was well known in creature circles that when the Ministry 'collected' the elementals they were actually imprisoning them. If it was proved that an elemental's family could not care for it - not that the Ministry knew what 'care' was, or for that matter what 'proof' would be if it were staring right at them, they would be taken to the Department of Mysteries, and none heard from them again. That every single elemental had been proved to be 'without proper care' said enough.

The boy was in danger of being whisked away by the Ministry to who-knows-where to have who-knows-what be done to him. Torius wouldn't stand for it. He could protect this ice elemental, this rare creature that would someday become a powerful mage; he would raise it, like his Sire raised him.

He needed to be more insistent.

"SIRE!"

Usually, vampires like himself stopped calling their fathers 'sire' after around a decade in their care. When in distress, however, it was a wake-up call that would bring their sires to them without fail.

He heard the thump as his sire fell out of bed, and the pounding of feet on the stairs. Feeling stress leave his body, he let his shoulders slump and smiled at his sire, Dessio.

"Dessio, I found an elemental, an ice elemental," he said for explanation. Dessio's eyes widened in understanding, and he strode over with great purpose.

Dessio wasted no time. "Where is it, and is it safe?" He inquired seriously.

"He's outside, just within the wards, messing around in a flurry of snow," Torius informed him. "He did not attack. He seems completely calm at the moment, though he is definitely lost and alone. I did not address it directly, but he has wounds on his ribcage, arms, and legs; they have been frozen over. I did not think it wise to ask where they came from before I got him to safety."

Dessio nodded in acceptance of the explanation. "Torius, retrieve some healers from the other families in the area - swear them to secrecy. I will have some house-elves get whatever books they can find on elementals. Please introduce me to him before you leave; I will keep an eye on him."

Torius nodded firmly and threw open the door, leading his sire outside to the lake's edge, where the boy was sitting, his knees drawn up to his shoulders. He turned around at that moment, exposing his pale face, long black locks framing his face and oddly warm eyes - a deep forest green - watching them in open curiosity.

"Hello," he said when they got close. "Who are you?"

"I am Torius Akeldam," Torius introduced himself, bowing slightly. "This is Dessio Sang, my blood-father." The boy's face opened in understanding, and a sweet smile graced his face.

"Hello," he greeted them, mimicking their bow with the fluid grace all elementals had. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

The world shattered.

* * *

Harry followed the shellshocked men into the house. It was slightly too warm for his liking, so the snow cuddled him in a loving embrace and kept him cold. The two men turned to look pointedly at each other, and Harry tilted his head.

Torius smiled at him, displaying a long, pointed pair of teeth. Vampires. He shrugged and continued through the house, allowing himself to be led to a room which was decorated tastefully in muted blues and quiet, unobtrusive whites. He immediately lay down on the bed and huddled in the corner of the sheets, pulling the material up to his chest and sighing in relief.

"This will be your room while you are here," Torius announced in that calm lilt Harry had begun to associate with safety. Certainly, nothing had hurt him while Torius was there. "Is it acceptable?"

Harry blinked, not really understanding. "It is nice," he admitted. "I've never had a room before. Thank you."

This seemed to alarm the two men, and he instantly expected a wave of upset - but… nothing. Relieved, he curled up and closed his eyes…

* * *

"Stand aside, Torius," his sire ordered. "He sleeps, but this will be delicate." Torius nodded in understanding; the mind arts, if not done carefully, could injure another's mind. He stepped back and watched warily as his sire stared into the blank, lidded emeralds that glimmered with frost and unshed tears. Soon, Dessio was wandering through the boy's memories, gleaning what he could from Harry's mind.

Harry Potter. He should have seen it earlier - the burn across his face had eliminated the scar, but he saw the resemblance from news reports. It was definitely Harry; they would have known instinctively if he was lying, or telling half-truths. Which was disturbing - that Harry Potter could just wander into a Vampiric community, or that he'd never had a room before? Torius wasn't sure.

His father's eyes blew wide, and the connection severed with a sharp snap of magic. Dessio flinched, but Harry did not move, merely closed his eyes and slumped fully into sleep. Stepping back, Dessio grabbed his son by the shoulders and pushed him out the door, a grim expression on his face.

"Torius," Dessio hissed, "I am going to make him your brother. There is no choice; I must do it in the next three hours. I must brief you on what I saw."

Torius nodded fearfully. There was no disobeying his sire.

"He was in the care of muggles," Dessio hissed, an almost animal side leaking into his voice, dripping with rage - the side of vampires that had wizards and muggles cowering in their presence, as if they were a wild beast about to be unleashed. "I will feast on their blood tonight. I am within our laws to do so - and, indeed, the Ministry's. Those muggles abused him terribly. The wounds were from his uncle. He will need his blood-brother's support if he is to survive while I fulfil the revenge quota."

Torius felt his body clench. Revenge quota. Vampires only took revenge if within their instinctual rights to do so, and even then it was rarely required. The abuse was unquestionably worse than Torius wanted to know. Furthermore, it meant that as Harry's Freezing finished and waned, he would need someone to supply him with some blood to heal - his brother's blood.

Every moment was vital. Elementals who were ill when they came into inheritance could quite easily die. They returned into the room, and Dessio kneeled on the bed next to Harry.

Bloody hell, Torius mused, shocked suddenly out of his thoughts. Harry Potter is going to be my blood-brother.

He watched in silence as Dessio slid the material of Harry's ragged, frozen shirt down the boy's shoulder. "You will need a vampire's blood to help you through your inheritance," Dessio informed him. "Please stay calm… and forgive me, Harry Potter."

With that, he bit down on Harry's shoulder and slit the skin open. Torius watched as Dessio carefully began to let blood run from his mouth and into the wound, opening up the boy to the son-father bond that Dessio was trying to form.

Magic took control, and Harry accepted the bond easily, Dessio's blood quickly accepting Harry's. Harry looked a bit dazed, but definitely better than Torius did when Dessio had rescued him from his muggle family.

Indeed, Torius was a muggle vampire. He barely survived, but he was forever thankful that Dessio pulled him away from his muggle family. Now, he had magic and vampires, instead of alcoholics.

Harry blinked, and his body shifted immediately. The room got a bit warmer.

"The bond is complete," Dessio murmured. "I am your sire now, Harry. Stay calm and keep within your blood-brother's sight. Torius?"

Torius stepped forward and took his father's place. Harry reached out and gripped Torius's hand, pulling him in, and settled down in a calming, sideways embrace.

"Go, father," Torius murmured, seeing his father hesitate. "I will care for Harry. Take revenge for him."

Dessio showed his fangs, hissing. "Yesss," he hissed, "Revenge. I will return when they are drained of every drop. I will be fed for years," he chuckled without amusement, twirling on his foot and warping away silently.

"Dippy!" Torius called the house-elf, who appeared immediately. "Hurry - we must get a first-aid kit…"

* * *

Dessio pulled himself up to full height and quickly found the house. He cared not how many Ministry laws he was breaking; he was within his rights until the muggles were dead and gone to break any minor law, as long as he had not yet eliminated threats to his new son.

The protectiveness he was feeling was almost overwhelming. Even now it was tearing at his insides as he knocked; he should be blasting down the door and blowing them up for their sins. Revenge, however, was best served cold, with faces intact; his anger-induced suggestions were far too… forgiving. Their deaths would not be quick.

The door opened, and the child that had indulged freely in 'Harry Hunting' opened the door. He sneered in disgust at the fat boy, taking in his fearful face as he exposed his fangs, elongated visibly from the sheer need to kill searing through his veins.

"Stand aside, brat," he hissed. "Or face the dire consssequencesss…."

The boy ran away screaming, his terror music to his vindictive mind. Yes. Be scared. He was here to destroy them and all they held dear for their crimes against his new son.

The horse woman came downstairs, and he watched her face. She was the only one who knew of magic; who knew what he was, and hurt him anyway. Her face draining of colour was particularly delectable; he could imagine the same when his teeth ripped her limb for limb and bled her dry for her sins.

The fat man would be fun, too. Purple to white wasn't such a stretch - he had way too much blood anyway. Oh, and there he was now; all his current victims in one place. Good.

He herded the scared family into a sitting room where he used his magic to push them into seats on their old, distasteful couch. Disgusting furniture for a disgusting family. Fitting. With another wave of his hand, he summoned an elegant chair, which he nestled into comfortably, throwing one leg over his other knee in a show of complete casual calm.

"Revenge is what I am here for," he announced simply. "I entered the mind of my Sire and found you punishable under our laws. As a vampire, I am required by magic to eliminate any immediate threat to my Sire, and to take vengeance for those who have grievously wronged my Sire, lest I lose my right to protect him." His smile widened, and he let them stare at his fangs in open terror. "You three will be my victims - I am sure you know why."

"So that freak," Petunia said apathetically, her face falling into despair. "He is a vampire?"

"Don't play dumb, dearest Petunia," Dessio smiled sweetly, displaying the pointy edge his teeth had taken, beyond even his fangs. "Harry is much more special. You know it has been two-hundred years since the last ice elemental was born? He is so very important to everyone. I do hope you understand how we don't take kindly to women whacking him with pots and pans and working him as a slave. No, he's not a vampire - he is my blood-adopted son."

Petunia gulped.

"And Vernon," Dessio turned swiftly to the man who was struggling against the magical bonds, a horror on his face that made Dessio's vengeful spirit cackle with glee. "Beating him? How uncouth. Your son could use some discipline… and Harry deserves much more than all of you. Forcing him to cook and clean, to garden in the blistering sun even as his body began to accept his inheritance…" he tutted, clicking his tongue and making great show of shaking his head in disappointment.

He could see the boy's pain now; how even the heat of a living person's breath could cause burns to scar his face. He was lucky he ran into vampires and not humans - he would have been incinerated. "Why, I don't doubt that angry mobs ought be on your doorstep, tearing you limb for limb."

Vernon sputtered wordlessly.

"Dudders," he chuckled at the nickname as the young boy blanched. "I do not take kindly to 'Harry Hunting'. You chose the wrong victims. I would say to change, but then again… you won't have a chance too, now, will you?"

And with that, he let his magic free and watched as three of the worst muggles imaginable suffered every torture placed on Harry's body, feeling his suffering and more, his rage ripping through their veins and giving them pain beyond the worst torture imaginable.

Blood splattered on the floor, and he drank liberally from their corpses, proving to his magic that revenge had been sweet.

Nobody crossed a vampire's son.

* * *

Harry shuffled closer to Torius, taking soft, shallow breaths. He felt cold. The awe, the wonder, the magic was wearing off - the shock of… inheritance? - was leaving him. He was so cold. Torius was marginally warmer, and he threw reservations to the wind in favour of snuggling up in Torius's chest.

Dear Merlin, his brother. He had a family - other than Sirius and his… relatives, of course. He had someone who cared enough to take over for his care, to protect him. He felt a hand coil around him.

Yes. This. It was perfect.

"Thank you," he murmured, feeling the pain ease as Torius upped the strength of his numbing spell. Torius's hands worked every ten minutes to put more bandages on him as the cold melted away and left behind gaping wounds. Obviously Vernon had gone all out this time… but this time, he had someone to heal him, to help him feel better. He smiled deliriously.

As he thought, Torius chatted on soothingly, a seemingly endless stream of conversation. He talked about how they were vampires, and assured him that no, he wasn't a vampire himself, he was just adopted into their culture, could use their type of magic. Despite the situation, Harry was actually sort of excited. He had a family in Dessio and Torius; they would teach him over the summer. Nobody would dare rip him from them.

Nobody crossed a vampire's son.

He sighed restfully and listened to Torius's breathing. There was no heartbeat, but that was expected; they were the undead, after all. Torius explained the effects of being adopted by a vampire, the rules, the meaning of it all - how he would gain the abilities of the vampire, the blood-magic - minus the whole 'sucking blood' thing and the semi-immortality most vampires had. Harry was actually a bit relieved at that; being immortal was actually one of his fears that he kept to himself. He wanted to be able to meet his parents someday.

Stretching out like a cat, he cuddled further into Torius's arms and let his adoptive brother clean his wounds and talk to him softly.

* * *

Remus turned to Sirius, who was staring slack-jawed at number four, Privet Drive.

"We must assume Harry has been kidnapped," Dumbledore said grimly. The words flew past them without effect; if not for Remus's reassuring hands on his shoulder, Sirius would already be going mad with fear over where his godson had disappeared to.

The gruesome remains of the muggle family were carried out by aurors, who were quite disgusted by the corpses. It was hard to see just how much damage their bodies had sustained. The man, Vernon, seemed worst off, entire chunks of his body ripped from him and organs spilling out; the only evidence of their attacker being their extreme pallor and lack of blood.

Vampires.

Sirius shuddered. It would be horrible if his godson had been turned maliciously. As it was, it was highly likely that the Dursleys had been killed due to information they held about the perpetrator. There were no more living links to Harry Potter's whereabouts.

Remus felt ill, and his inner wolf, for once, shared his thoughts.

 _I hope Harry's okay._

* * *

A/N: Something I've been dedicating time to lately, and one I'm personally fond of. Elemental was inspired heavily by 'Dancing in the Frost', a fanfiction by My Echoing Silence that was adopted. I was inspired to write this after seeing the original.

Also using this to experiment - I realized quickly that the first chapters I write are usually really short, vague prologues. From now on, I'll try and post maybe two or three chapters instead of a tiny snippet. Tell me in the reviews if that was a good idea.

Enjoy.

-MDH


	14. Flamel's Child

Summary: Harry suicides, only to find himself asked to do it all again. Not being Harry Potter helps - but that doesn't mean he won't protect the new Harry with everything he has available to him.

Rating: K+ - T

* * *

1

* * *

Harry Potter sat on the roof of Hogwarts, staring at the sky. Life had finally slowed down for him. He was finishing school. He wasn't fighting for his life. But no matter what he did, he was still on edge - like every moment something could kill him.

With a sigh, he hopped off and closed his eyes.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, he was faced with something he expected, but didn't quite know how to describe.

His only logical conclusion was that this was Death.

"Hello?" he asked the being before him. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe - but he didn't need to. He felt his body relaxing, like succumbing to sleep.

A cold, spidery hand managed to touch him, despite his lack of body, and he felt a chill in his spine wake him up. Bothering to see again, he shuddered at the sight of a large, vaguely humanoid being - if a great black cloak, thrown over mismatched, crackling bones, could be called humanoid.

Something was being shown to him, so he paid attention and watched as concepts - ideas - flew through his mind. Death. Life. Prophecy. A story incomplete; an imbalance in the world. Life again. Death again. Prophecy once more.

"The prophecy?" Harry asked.

Confirmation. Agreement. A repeat of imbalance, and then a quick barrage of life-death-life-death… combined with himself and Voldemort.

He paused to remember the words of the Prophecy, and ones were placed in his thoughts for him - _either must die at the hand of the other._

He felt a sickly feeling crawl into his chest, like a worm thrashing in his stomach, far more unpleasant than any butterfly could be.

A concern, a worry he hadn't dared acknowledge suddenly came easily. "Will I be able to die?"

Death, the being pushing ideas into his head, pulled away for a terrible moment, then returned.

Confirmation. Confusion… a strange idea which seemed, really, to fit the description of 'mistake'. It was strange having firm evidence that the gods were not perfect, that they could indeed make mistakes… but now wasn't really the time to ponder over that.

He thought for a moment. "I was supposed to die," he suggested. A strange yes and no which made barely any sense, but slowly organized itself.

The idea of soul. Then shackles, tying him to Earth - shackles which, for some reason, made him think of prophecy.

Then, rewind. Everything he'd seen - going backwards to his first moments. Then forward again - but the shackles fell away.

"I do it again," Harry repeated for clarity, "and I'll be able to die?"

A simple feeling which translated as 'yes'. Then another idea - the self.

Death took the idea and pulled it slowly apart, until the self was soul and body - and then placed the soul inside of another body.

"I'll be someone else," Harry offered.

Agreement.

Harry paused to think. "Will I have to kill Voldemort at the same time he kills me?"

A pause, then a feeling similar to rejection - a no, then. The separated self returned, and the body was animated, and held an item - an item which Harry observed looked like a bracelet with the Deathly Hallows on it.

The animated body pressed the bracelet to Voldemort's skin, and he heard the whistling screams of horcruxes, saw vague forms fly past.

"I get Harry Potter's body to touch the symbol to Voldemort's skin," Harry summarized, "And Voldemort dies?"

Agreement, and a twitch of amusement and a weird appeased-thankfulness mix. Harry found himself smiling.

"So I go back in time," he began, "as someone else."

A nod from the skeletal form, the first physical indication of understanding.

"I make sure my former body presses that symbol to Voldemort's skin, killing Voldemort."

Another nod. Harry smiled.

"Then I die naturally, and Harry's body dies naturally, and everything goes back to the way it's supposed to be."

He could almost hear a distant voice agreeing with him - but it was more a strange rattle than anything. He brushed it off without a thought and nodded. "I… will I remember this? Or my past life?"

A pulse of confirmation, a tinge of humour.

"Then I'm ready whenever you want to… send me, I suppose. I've waited long enough to die, so if this is what it takes…" Harry attempted to express himself, and found his emotion conveyed. This, more than anything, pleased Death.

Death's hand reached out, and Harry was suddenly physical again. He could feel himself being pulled in all directions, but stayed still as Death drew the hallows on Harry's wrist.

With a final scratch, Death sent Harry on his way.

* * *

Nicolas Flamel had lived a fulfilling life. Creating the Philosopher's Stone at forty, he'd proceeded to live through the ages with his wife, Perenelle, out in a small town called Devon. At six hundred and fifty four, he could definitely say that his life had been successful.

Rising for a new day, he dressed quickly and laid a kiss on his stirring wife's forehead, smiling gently at her. That he'd been able to bring his wife with him on his ageless journey was a gift he would never doubt.

Alas - the one thing he'd never had or done was raise a child of his own. With a gentle sigh, he began heading for the door out of their bedchambers when a sudden chill crept down his back, reminding him instantly of a memory from long ago.

It had been at the moment he had created the stone that he had first met Death, and made him a promise. He sighed and turned, expecting any moment for his debt to be forcefully paid. He had waited quite long, anyways.

Death stood over his wife, a looming creature of darkness and bones, which observed her carefully. Then, with a small gesture, it dragged him helplessly back onto his bed.

"Is it time for me to pay my debts to you?" Nicolas asked simply. His wife had woken, and she watched in mild fear and awe. Being old dulled your reactions to everything, and it seemed his wife was no exception.

Death seemed to pause entirely, then slowly dragged a limb over Nicolas's head. With a nod, a rattling, ominous voice filled the room.

"I have a favour to ask of you and your mate," Death announced. "And yes. Once this favour is done, I wish you to return, Nicolas, Perenelle."

Nicolas nodded. "Whatever I can do - consider it done."

"As with I," Perenelle said, finding her voice.

Death seemed to take on an eerie eagerness. "I have with me a soul with a duty to fulfill," he explained. "A strong soul. He will be born by you, Perenelle, and I ask this; guide him until he is ready to face his task. Nicolas, listen always to his words. Be the family Fate ripped from him when she decided to play with _my_ souls," he hissed, "until the passing of the 21st season of his life. Then, and without delay, I will return you to myself."

The elderly pair glanced at each other momentarily, then bowed deeply in mutual appreciation. Death seemed confused, but nodded to each and stepped away slowly.

Nicolas found his voice. "Death - thank you. You have given us our one greatest wish - a child of our own. We will raise him as best we can." Perenelle nodded in teary-eyed agreement, and if one was able to perceive the complex and minute ways Death expressed itself, happiness would have been closest to Death's emotion.

With a final step back, Death faded, leaving Nicolas and Perenelle to prepare to raise a child.

* * *

2

* * *

Harry was born into the world, ironically, at the exact same moment as Harry James Potter, the boy-who-lived - late on July the 31st, in 1980. While Harry's new body, as well as his old one, had been born, he hadn't been able to take control of it yet. Natural order took over, and he was refused control for months.

Instead, he watched his new parents with adoration and deep love he never thought he'd feel. The kindness shown in each movement, the love in each glance at his cot - the love his two parents, Nicolas and Perenelle, showed each other - healed Harry's heart.

Here, he was named Nico - presumably after his father. He was showered with gifts from the small families' acquaintances and friends, and found himself, for once, with so many people caring about him that he didn't know what to do about it all. His being special didn't get him suspicious glances or awkward stares, but admiration, as they glanced at the hallows etched into his wrist, as if he were blessed instead of cursed.

However, the older he got, the more nervous he felt. He knew - he _knew_ \- what was to happen to Harry Potter. If he were just able to control his body, he could warn them somehow - save Harry's parents, _his_ parents. As time went on, he came to accept it - but he had always wished someone was there to protect them, that someone cared…

But time marched on without pause, and the war continued to rage on - and with each passing day Nico felt certain that the news would soon arrive of the Potter's death.

* * *

Perenelle was a naturally gentle soul. With a loving husband and over six hundred years of life under her belt, she was a master of empathy and sympathy, and could tell at a glance when people were feeling sad or uncomfortable.

It was harder, however, to interpret complex emotions from a child - something that had always been kept from her. She treated her little Nico with great care, taking any advice she could get. So, it was with a shock that she woke to Nico wailing terribly.

Leaping out of bed, she snatched up a nightgown and threw it over herself, heading quickly towards her son's crib. He had always been a quiet and peaceful child, and such an outburst was unheard of from the baby. Reaching out, she peered into the crib and was met with a strange sight.

Somehow, her son had gotten his hands on a newspaper. He was staring at the front page in apparent horror, and he turned to look at her with soft, wet eyes.

"Harry," he said clearly - the first word he'd ever said - and with such mourning that Perenelle found herself reaching forward without a thought. She lifted him, newspaper and all, into her arms and cooed softly, letting him nuzzle into her shoulder in an attempt to dry his eyes.

"'Arry," he burbled again, in clear distress, as he pushed the newspaper towards her. She caught it and flipped it out to read, peering at the page.

There was a picture of a small house in a community Perenelle recalled as Godric's Hollow. The headline made her read it twice - _POTTER SACRIFICE KILLS VOLDEMORT!_ \- before she dared to believe it.

"Harry!" Nico slurred urgently, pointing at the house. Small, soft hands reached to the paper and gripped it, small sniffles emerging from his throat.

"Who is Harry?" Perenelle asked softly, though she knew Nico wouldn't be able to answer very clearly. She scanned the article until she reached what she needed.

 _Aurors on the scene reported only two dead - but the true miracle lies in one-year-old Harry Potter, who lost his parents this fateful night. Reports state that when Voldemort tried to kill Harry, Harry's magic bounced away the killing curse, reflecting it upon Voldemort himself._

 _You heard right - Harry Potter has done the impossible and survived the killing curse._

* * *

This reaction - the sharpness of the child's emotion - made her worry. She spent the night soothing the boy, tracing lines down his back and wiping away his copious tears, but there was nothing she could do. She supposed he was mourning for the Potter child's parents, but there was nothing she could say for sure. Regardless, she told her husband of the occurrence and continued on, raising her child with magic and love.

At four, Nico was a prodigy. Literate, intelligent, and highly empathetic, he simply refused to use a training wand - and with good reason. He quickly got a grip on wandless magic, with the assistance of his proud father, and began practicing whenever and however he could. Levitating things, changing the colours of his father's hair whenever he wasn't looking - any spell he could practice, he did.

It was his fourth birthday, when he was handed his father's wand to use for the day, that Nico gave his mother a mischievous smile and waved it gently.

Forth burst a phoenix, made of pure joy. It wove around the room and Nico cackled with joyous laughter at the flabbergasted expressions on the faces of his parents.

"Nico, how long have you been able to do that?" Perenelle asked, touching the phoenix to make sure that it truly was a patronus.

Nico grinned, bouncing on his feet. "Months!" he giggled, dashing towards her and gripping her leg in a hug. "'Cause you're really nice!"

"Hey, hey, what about me?" Nicolas complained, though he too was smiling to the edges of his face. Nico turned around and placed a finger on his chin, tapping it in a pondering way with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Mm, okay. You're nice too," he allowed, smirking. Nicolas rolled his eyes and pulled in his small family for a hug, a squealing child between them.

The moment was killed swiftly, however, when Nico's laughter suddenly ended. He twisted and struggled, forcing the pair to place him on the floor, and stared at his arm.

"What's that, Nico?" Nicolas asked gently, kneeling beside his prankster son, observing this rarely-shown serious side, so reminiscent of the war-torn adults he'd seen leaving the Death Eaters behind them.

On his son's wrist was a simple bracelet, with three strings connected to a symbol he recognized - something which sent chills down his spine. A black, wooden triangle - holding a circle and a straight line down the middle - held the bracelet together.

Just like the symbol etched in his son's wrist, which they had not mentioned since his birth, it seemed he was to be further marked by Death.

With a flash, a small pile of cloth wrapping a set of objects appeared. A letter floated down to land atop it, and Nico walked towards it with a determination Nicolas rarely saw in his precious child. The letter was picked up, and Nico turned around to read it.

"To the soul on a mission," he read, "congratulations on your fourth cycle alive, however contradictory it is of me to celebrate it. Congrats, as well, on your twenty-first year of existence."

Nicolas and Perenelle shared a glance. They rarely spoke of Nico's past, if at all, and even then it was an uncomfortable subject. They had never known quite how long he had lived.

"You have trained enough for me to return these to you," he continued, and glanced at the pile. "I assure you that Dumbledore is not short of a wand - however, I believe he is short of an invisibility cloak, which I trust you will return to Harry Potter once he enters Hogwarts."

"Nico?" Perenelle asked gently. "What are those?"

"The Deathly Hallows," Nico replied absently. "I had them before… I didn't think he'd give them to me, but that just goes to show how much I _don't_ know yet." with a sigh, he continued, "The stone, thankfully, has been cleared of the cursed soul residing within it. Use it to summon me whenever you come across the other soul pieces that you have been asked to retrieve - while not necessary, it will make our task easier to complete. I will contact you once more when you enter Hogwarts… how I do that is yet to be seen.

"Be safe, soul, and good luck." Nico closed the letter and summoned the wand with a snap, watching it fly into his hand - and staring in solemn awe at the flash of power as it recognized him. Nico turned to his parents, who suddenly felt rather small.

"I think it's about time I told you about my past," he said quietly. "About what I remember."

The small family gathered on the floor, and summoning his suppressed memories forth, Nico began to expertly tell the story of a boy who lived in a cupboard under the stairs.

* * *

A week later, Nico was gripping his mother's hand and scanning Privet Drive, his clear hatred for the place startling his parents - though, after all he'd told them about the people who lived here, it was clear that it was justified.

"Any moment now," he insisted again, bouncing on his heels. "Harry'll show up today, I'm sure."

"We know," Perenelle chuckled weakly.

Nicolas knelt down next to his son, sighing away his nerves. "Son, would you rather we weren't here for this?"

Nico raised an eyebrow. "Why?" Then he seemed to think. "Oh. Harry's not going to trust adults."

Nicolas nodded. "You'll have an easier time. We'll take a stroll around the block, yeah? You watch for Harry, and be careful about it."

"Of course," Nico replied, rolling his eyes. "Mentally damaged kid. I'm not going to be _cruel_ to him, Pops."

Nicolas smirked. "Alright. Well, I'll just head off with Perenelle. You stay safe." He rose and offered Perenelle his arm, and together they walked down the muggle street, disillusioned so as not to attract attention to their unique attire.

Nico, of course, had conjured his own set of clothes for this occasion, and glanced each way before running over to the other side of the street. He sat on the curb and waited, humming an old tune to himself to pass the time.

It wasn't long before he felt a prickle on his spine, and a small voice said, "What's that song?"

Nico turned, and he felt his heart sink in deep sympathy. _This_ Potter looked even worse than he had. The boy - who by now was sidestepping nervously and squeezing his eyes shut, waiting to be punished for asking questions - was wearing clear rags, and his arms were bony and thin. He stood up and pulled Harry down to sit next to him, the bony child shivering at even a brief touch.

"My friend wrote it for me," Nico told him honestly. "He made me a flute to play it on, but I lost it. So now I just sing."

Harry blinked at him in bewildered understanding and nodded. "Thank you," he managed, "for… for answering me."

Nico smiled sadly. "It's okay to ask me questions," he offered. "I promise. I won't hurt you just because you're curious."

Harry fell silent, and the two four-year-olds sat on the step.

"You mean it?" he asked shyly. Quickly, he added, "I don't doubt you, it's just that-"

"-nobody ever offered before," Nico finished for him. "I know. I know a lot of things."

"I don't know much," Harry admitted. "Uncle Vernon says freaks aren't supposed to know much."

Nico tilted his head, considering how to answer. "What is a freak?" he asked at last.

"I'm a freak," Harry admitted quietly.

"Then freaks must be very nice people," Nico concluded. "And a nice person is a very good thing to be."

Harry brightened. "You think I'm nice?"

"Of course you are," Nico replied. "If you weren't nice, you would have been rude or hurt me. But you said thank you and you're friendly. That makes you nice."

Harry frowned. Silence fell again, and Nico began to sing softly again, recalling the tune Hagrid had played on a whittled instrument, in a time forgotten by all but him.

"What's normal?" Harry inquired.

"Boring," Nico replied immediately, ending his song. "Boring and plain. I much prefer unique, myself. It makes people interesting."

"So the Dursleys want me to be… _not_ interesting," Harry concluded.

"I suppose," Nico answered. "But really, that's self-contradictory."

"Self-contradictory?" Harry inquired, confused.

Nico backpedalled. "You can't be normal because you are special," Nico explained. "You are special because you are you. They can't ask someone unique and interesting to be normal. It's… like asking fire to be water. It doesn't work."

"Oh," Harry concluded sadly.

Nico patted Harry's shoulder. "Don't be sad," he requested softly. "I like you just the way you are. You're special, and nice - and those are really good things. Normal people aren't very much fun, so it's much better to be unique, like you," he rambled.

"Why am I unique?" Harry asked glumly, drawing on the granite with his feet. Nico grinned.

"Cause you're magic," he said happily. "And magic is super special. It can make things from thin air, and get you across the country in seconds! You can fly, and make paintings move, and make fireworks from the tip of your finger…"

"The Dursleys don't like magic," Harry realized. "And that's why they don't like me!"

"They don't like magic?" Nico inquired, even though he knew quite well that they despised it. "Well that's silly. Just 'cause they don't like magic they don't want you to have it? They sound really silly to me."

Harry nodded in agreement and stared into the distance.

"D'you think," Harry said, "if I show the Dursleys that magic can be good, that they'll like me?"

Nico shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted freely. "But whenever you did magic before, did they like it?"

"No," Harry realized sadly. "No, they didn't."

"Maybe don't do that, then," Nico offered, patting his shoulder. "Don't worry, Emeralds - when you go to Hogwarts, you'll be able to use your magic all the time!"

"Emeralds?" Harry asked, glancing around.

Nico laughed. "You, silly! Your eyes - they're green. So - Emeralds." he took a leap of faith and pulled the emaciated child into a hug. "It's a nickname!"

Harry smiled weakly, relaxing in the hold. "I've never had a nickname before."

"Me neither," Nico replied. Thinking quickly to have the conversation continue, he added, "I used to pretend I was somebody else though."

Harry shifted, and Nico let go. Stretching, Harry asked, "who?"

"My best friend," Nico replied, chuckling. "You'd like him - he was really good at chess. And my other best friend, she was super-smart! The three of us, we were inseparable."

Harry tilted his head. "Really?"

"Really," Nico confirmed. "Hey, maybe someday you'll have some best friends too. Then you can tell me about them!"

Harry drooped. "But Dudley'll scare them away."

"Not at Hogwarts," Nico replied reasonably. "Dudley can't go there. He'd fall in the lake, and the squid would kick him out," he announced confidently.

"At Hogwarts," Harry said quietly. "You think a place like that exists?"

"I don't _think_ , Emeralds," Nico tutted, a mischievous grin on his face. "I _know_."

* * *

Nico insisted on visiting Harry as frequently as he could. Every day, Nico would manage to snatch up the floo powder from wherever it was hidden, use it to floo to the neighbourhood, and dash his way to the Dursley home to help Harry with his chores. Nicolas wanted to help him somehow, but he also knew that by interfering any more than Nico requested was not the best idea. Supportive as they were, however, they always remained by his side, offering him support - even when he sometimes came home exhausted from healing Harry's wounds.

Harry leaned on Nico like a crutch, borrowing his strength and relying on him for all his knowledge. Of course, Nico pushed him towards making his own good habits - studying, reading, learning, the good things - but it was still Nico who taught him the most important things.

On Nico's fifth birthday, he asked to have Harry join him.

"Last year," he said seriously, "I had you two. It was an awesome birthday. Harry's got the same birthday as me. I want him to have an awesome birthday too."

Nicolas could see nothing wrong with this. "Alright, Nico, you can ask him," he allowed. "Just make sure he won't be missed."

With a confident nod, Nico stepped into the floo's flames and vanished.

* * *

"...happy birthday, dear Nico," the group stretched out the note for far longer than they had to, "happy birthday to you."

Nico grinned and blew gently, each flame winking out easily. Harry sat at his side, bouncing eagerly in his seat and gripping Nico's hand tightly.

"How much cake would you like?" Nico inquired gently, gesturing minutely for his mother to hold off on cutting the delicacy.

Harry blushed. "A lot," he admitted. "I _never_ get cake."

Another gesture, and Perenelle knew to cut large slices as she piled cake onto fancy plates, handing the first one to Harry.

"For me?" he inquired, bewildered.

"Well, it wouldn't be a proper Flamel birthday without it," Nicolas chimed in. "Dig in, Harry. You've earned it."

Nico, to demonstrate, took his own piece with a flick of the wrist and began to eat morsels he pulled off the edge, ignoring the fork entirely.

Perenelle rolled her eyes and watched as Harry finally decided to let go of his inhibitions and eat his fill, consuming a disastrous amount of cake. This was the exact reason she had bothered to stuff them with healthier foods first; after this, they would not eat anything put before them. It was enough that she'd had the foresight to realize Nico would attempt to spoil Harry, even on his own birthday - not that they didn't share it.

Cake polished off, the two of them settled into the couch to open presents. Every two or three obligation gifts, Nico insisted that Harry got to open one of the boxes, stating firmly that it was part of the experience. While Harry couldn't keep what he found, he was regardless overjoyed by the things he found and was able to pass on to Nico.

The final box suitably destroyed by eager youths, Harry pulled Nico into a hug and murmured, "Sorry I couldn't get you anything…"

"You're more important than a _box_ , Emeralds," Nico huffed. He cast a serious look at his parents and plastered on a smile. "In fact, we haven't finished getting presents."

Harry pulled away and frowned. "We've opened all the boxes, though."

"Sure we have," Nico agreed. "But not all gifts are in boxes. Hold out your arm."

Harry watched as Nico pulled off the bracelet he'd never taken off since they'd met - a wooden triangle, holding a circle and a line, held on his arm by three leather strings. His eyes widened as the bracelet was pushed onto his own frail arm.

"For me?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah," Nico confirmed. "You'll never lose it." The sheer confidence in Nico's voice was enough to convince Harry of the same, and he pulled his arm back, admiring the simple object with childlike fascination.

Nico glanced at his father, sighed, and slung an arm around Harry's shoulder.

"Happy birthday, Harry."

* * *

Nico fought back tears - of sadness and of strain - as he poured pure magic into Harry's body. It was not easy, and definitely not efficient, but Nico didn't know enough about first aid to do much else.

Harry whimpered as his arms snapped back to where they were supposed to be, as his lung was mended, his broken foot rearranged. It only took a few minutes, but by the time Nico was finished, he was exhausted.

Harry opened his eyes, tested his body, and immediately went to Nico's side. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern leaking into his actions as he offered a shoulder for Nico to lean on.

"I should be asking you that," Nico huffed. "I _hate_ those Dursleys. They shouldn't hurt you like this."

Harry nodded glumly in agreement, but said softly, "you know there isn't anything we can do, Nico."

Nico glanced again at Harry's scars. Far more scars than the original Harry - he - had ever had. He could feel himself grinding down his own teeth. "I should be able to protect you, Harry, and I can't even manage that..."

"It's okay, Nico," Harry insisted. "I'll survive…"

Nico screamed in frustration. "You shouldn't _HAVE_ to survive, Harry!" he hissed. "You should be happy, and healthy, in a house with people who love you. This -" he gestured to the house with a grandiose disgust, "-is a _mockery_ of what you should have. It is _insulting_."

There was a snap of apparition, and Nico got a sinking feeling in his gut. He quickly disillusioned Harry's bracelet and turned around to find a wand pointed at his head.

"I'm afraid this budding friendship must end," a benevolent voice, conflicting and confused in the original Harry's memories, snapped into a solid disgust which shocked even Nico. "To think a magical child lives in this neighbourhood… but no more. Harry must not know about magic…"

Harry shook in fear, and Nico turned away from the grandfatherly Dumbledore. "Go into the Dursley home, Harry," he said, with an eerie calm.

"Ni-" Harry began.

"Go in the house," Nico repeated. "Now. Please."

Harry paused, then turned to glare at the grandfatherly figure, whose eyes were twinkling-

A burst of sparks exploded in Dumbledore's face, and Nico hissed, "HARRY! GET IN THE HOUSE!"

Startled out of his wits, Harry raced away, stopping only on the doorstep to glance rapidly between his first friend and the strange wizard who had approached them.

Nico turned to Dumbledore and summoned forth the powerful, primal magic he'd been training since he'd been born in this world. "I believe only one of us will forget this meeting," Nico said calmly.

Harry dove into the house, confident that the magic was Nico's.

Dumbledore's shock was only matched by how unprepared he was to have his mind rearranged in a flash of light.

When he returned to full consciousness, he considered nothing suspicious, for he didn't remember Nico at all - nor falling unconscious in the first place. He glanced at the wards, tested their strength, nodded and apparated away.

* * *

A/N: I particularly like this one, I've managed to get down quite a bit. Merry Christmas, and hope you enjoy. As always, reviews are appreciated.

Got questions? Send me a message - I check every day.

-MDH

PS - This story is now joining the mass upload group. Link to the work is in my story list.


	15. Papa Corvus

Summary: Death isn't happy. It asks Harry, who has just committed suicide at 20, if he would be willing to go to an alternate timeline - effectively identical to his own - and give a younger Harry Potter the life he deserved.

Harry agrees, and becomes Corvus Potter, 'squib'.

Rating: T (subject to change)

* * *

1

* * *

At 20, Harry had done much with his short life. A full two years of training in the most interesting and obscure magics possible could attest to that. The reasons behind training were a bit less bright and beautiful.

Ginny? Shacked up with some bloke from Cuba.

Teddy? Living happily with Andromeda, unaware of his godfather, Harry.

Ron and Hermione? Happiest couple in the wizarding world with a daughter on the way.

Himself? Alone. Alone and forgotten, with no contact with his former friends in years.

In his attempts to forget, he'd turned to training. With each punch, he recited another thing to forget. Forget being abandoned at a roadside three winters ago in the outer edges of nowhere while Hermione drove off with a drunken Ron in the backseat, leaving him cold and alone in a violent winter. Forget being loved and hated at every turn, the flip-of-a-switch way his popularity seemed to go. Forget finding Ginny with another man-

He found he couldn't care. Let the excuse for a woman use her body like a toy. He certainly didn't care.

Sitting on the roof of a building in London - apparition was _still_ one of his most useful skills - he mused over a dream he had had as a kid. A dream of love. A dream of family and of magic. It was a lovely dream, filled with hope and promise.

The winds picked up, his boundless magic making itself known.

With a deep, heavy sigh, he threw himself into the air - the only place he felt truly free - for the last time. Soon, he would hit the ground. Soon, he would be-

* * *

Harry opened his eyes.

Standing before him was a nebulous, black entity which rippled like a soothing blanket. It coiled around him, and he found himself relaxing as it pulled him in, coveting him like a prize in vague, soft arms.

" _You decided to join me early,_ " the voice - without gender, nor judgement, just soft, gentle kindness - mused.

"Yes," Harry replied. "Excuse my asking, but will I be able to meet my parents? Sirius? Remus?"

" _Hush."_ A swab of the endless black cloth brushed his mouth in a motherly request for silence. " _I can promise you your family someday. When that will be is what I have come to discuss."_

Harry nodded acceptance and waited.

" _Occasionally,_ " Death murmured, a hand brushing through his wild black hair, " _I am met with a need to preserve a timeline. I often borrow souls with the required experiences from other timelines."_

It allowed him to adjust to his comfort. " _If I am to send you to your reward, I must send you whole and happy, my soul. You are not. I must send you into another life. Normally, I would wipe your mind of this conversation - of your life - until you returned here, having lived another."_

Harry nodded in understanding.

" _However, I would like to skip the memory wipe this time and place you somewhere where you can help change the course of another timeline. The choice is yours: wipe your memory and go into a new life, or take on this task and give a happier life to another, while also healing yourself. You have as much time as you need."_

Harry did not have to think long. "I… I will take the second option. I… I want to help. Is there anything you can tell me about the new life?" he requested hopefully.

" _Yes,_ " Death mumbled. " _Your new life will begin at seventeen years of age on December the twenty-first, 1986. I will alter a small choice made in your favour, so you will inherit all that belonged to your last father, the soul James Charlus Potter. You will be named Corvus Potter, and be a distant cousin to Harry James Potter."_ Death paused. " _You will be named a squib, but your soul is that of a magical, and as such you will be magical. Whether you reveal this is your choice. The soul whose life I wish you to change is the one of Harry James Potter."_

"And what of the other souls I can change?" Harry inquired.

" _Inconsequential,_ " Death replied. " _Yours is the only soul at risk."_

"Even more than Tom Riddle's?" Harry asked.

Death paused. Then, with a sudden shock, he felt his memories searched. It was, unlike Legilimency, not a painful experience, but it was shocking nonetheless.

" _Make an effort to bring his soul to me, wherever and whenever you can._ " Death seemed rather peeved. " _Escape me he cannot. My souls must all return. He thinks himself greater than Death - hah! What a fool my soul be!"_

Harry snorted. "I'll do my best. Thank you."

" _And thank you, my soul,"_ Death replied once its composure returned. " _Good luck, and may happiness trace your steps."_

The world faded, and a much more optimistic Harry Potter discarded everything he had ever known.

* * *

Harry tripped over his own feet as he was assaulted with memories.

The assault of information was a powerful thing, and he nearly fell over before walking towards a nearby wall to lean on while he slowly reviewed the information.

 _Corvus Potter. Just got my inheritance from Gringotts. Right._

Quickly remembering just how much trouble he'd had claiming the inheritance, he shivered in the December air and stuffed the legal papers into a duffel bag he hadn't quite noticed until now.

 _I should probably get out of here before Dumbledore and the Order of the Fried Chicken get here._

He glanced around to make sure nobody saw him before apparating away, a brief burst of _silencio_ hiding his exit. He worked on autopilot, setting his destination and going there before he even had to actively think about it.

He appeared in a small, comfortable living room, eying the crackling fire and quickly evaluating his airy surroundings. The room was mostly bare, with just a soft sofa and a table within the space outside the fire, and a few stray paintings and pictures lining the walls. He observed them for a few seconds, feeling the subtle stab of loneliness.

Harry shook off the feeling he'd felt for three years and pulled himself up to his full height, reminding himself of his own previous achievements. He stretched and threw himself onto the sofa with a sigh, feeling it dip accordingly from overuse, and wondered if his body had slept here before.

Finally rising again, he searched through his duffel bag to remind himself of what he was doing, and quickly made a mental list of things to do.

 _One, find out what the date is, and the time._ He felt muscle memory guide his eyes to a clock, and smiled. _Seven-thirty at night._ _Right._ He scoured through the bag and finally found a calendar which had little black marks along over half the days. _December twenty-first, 1986… right, right, Death said that already._

Now that he had a bit of perspective, he recalled the study he'd done on mind magics and began casually sorting his mind. Marking each memory chronologically was first and foremost, and with a goal in mind he put down his new tool kit and fell asleep, barely remembering to mask his magic trail before he closed his eyes and began to use slumber to his mental advantage.

* * *

When Harry rose again, he'd managed to sort everything - past and pseudo-future - accordingly. Checking the clock, he hopped out of bed, slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, and immediately began a mental checklist, as he'd done for two years before now.

 _Issue one. Harry Potter is still, presumably, with the Dursleys._

 _Issue two. Tommy-boy is running around as a disembodied soul and I still need to find out how to exorcise things._

 _Issue three. I'm hungry._

Sighing at himself, he marched down the stairs and threw himself back into autopilot, letting the rather convenient muscle memory guide him out the door. His house was a modest place, with two small floors, the first being taken up by the room he'd slept in and an unused bedroom, the second being a kitchen, bathroom and simple eating area.

He opened the door to a sunny day, quickly assessing the area he was in. His vaguely organized memories informed him that he usually took breakfast at a small establishment down the gently sloping road. Shrugging, he decided that today would be no different. With a skip in his step, he walked off to have breakfast.

* * *

Harry absently munched on a grilled cheese sandwich, quickly deciding to give issue one priority. He didn't want to leave himself - or anyone, really - in the hands of the Dursley family. He mulled over things a bit, munching on ward theory and taking a sip of contemplation over how he would convince the Dursleys to let him whisk away Harry. It wouldn't be too hard on a moral ground - what mattered was that the Dursleys wouldn't want to be left unprotected. The wards would need to be sustained, which needed frequent visits to the general area to keep it strong.

Originally, he recalled, the blood wards had actually fallen early on in his youth, just after he entered Hogwarts. Well, wards was the wrong word - they were really more like a protective spell, with the house in Surrey being a sort of 'station' that would recharge them as long as Petunia lived there. Deciding that some semblance of honesty was in demand, he quickly drew up a mental plan and paid his small bill, giving the lady at the counter a small wave before he marched off to plan his appeal and set up the house for a young boy to move in.

* * *

2

* * *

Harry took a deep breath, reminding himself quickly of the facts he had to keep straight. _My name is Corvus Potter, ma'am. I'm a squib who breeds mail owls for a living, not that that's any of your business. As far as you know, I'm a muggle layman. Oh, look at that sweet boy - no, not the fat lump, I'm talking about my distant cousin, Harry here. Oh? You don't want him? Let me take care of that for you._

He cleared his head and knocked solidly on the door, waiting to be let inside. After a few moments, he heard a distinctly memorable slam and winced, wiping away his expression with a smile just as the door creaked open and Petunia craned her horse-neck out at him.

"Oh," she said, in a sickly sweet voice that brought up memories of Dudley screaming down the street for sweets. "Hello. Can I help you?"

"I believe so, madam," Harry agreed, giving her a bright smile. Glancing each way, he continued, "I hope you don't mind, but I'd rather not start a discussion on the doorstep. Hopefully, I'll be in and out. Do you mind?"

It seemed the fearsome Petunia Dursley of his childhood was no match for his kindly face. "Oh, of course. Please come in." He dutifully stepped inside and quickly found himself herded towards the sitting room, the new perspective on his childhood home somewhat alarming.

The copious pictures of Dudley made him slightly ill, but he ignored them in favour of shooting Petunia another smile, the kind he used on rabid fans when he wanted a convenient escape, and nodded politely as she sat down.

"Getting down to business, madam," he said importantly, "It's recently come to my attention that you have a young boy in your care." Immediately her expression darkened, and he watched the interesting phases her face went through, confident now that she could not hurt him.

"You aren't… one of _them,_ are you?" she asked suspiciously.

He smirked internally and put on a show.

"Me? One of _them_? Never!" He cried, agast. "I'm perfectly normal, thank you very much. Just have the unfortunate luck of being adopted by a _squib_ ," he said pompously. "That's mostly besides the point, but yes, I'm quite aware what your young… friend… is."

Petunia's expression warped into a vindictive smirk that had beetles climbing up his spine. "Thank _goodness_ there's someone who can see _sense_ ," she sighed, seemingly relieved. "Well, Mr…"

"Corvus," Harry made a show of frowning. "The adoption agency had a sense of humour. Corvus Potter, loath as I am to admit it."

She nodded. "I understand completely, Mr. Potter. Of course, we can't help who our family are."

He nodded in agreement. "Of course. Well, I suppose I'd better make clear what I'm here to do."

Having Petunia's full attention had never been so easy. "You see, Mrs. Dursley, _those_ people class me as one of their citizens, regardless of whether I want to be or not. As young Harry's… _other_ guardian has ignored the terms of the will, which strictly stated that he was not to be unceremoniously shoved into your care, I have a right, as closest relative with proper citizenship, to correct the situation as I see fit."

Petunia got a particularly shark-esque look on her face.

"Now, clearly, since we've got a criminal of a guardian trying to force him into your care," Harry continued on, "I can't just lay a claim and whisk him away. The wards on this property demand that he be within their rage for a certain duration of time per year. Thankfully," Harry grinned, "he doesn't even need to enter the house. As long as he is within range for about an hour each week, no alarms should go off."

Petunia slumped in relief. "And the range?" she requested immediately.

"Since the wards are tied primarily to you," Harry informed her, "all that we'd have to do is go to the market for lunch once a week, at the same time you go shopping. If you are in the same building for around an hour, everything will work beautifully."

Petunia went straight to business. "I go to a club in the local mall every Sunday," she said seriously. "There's a cafeteria on the floor below…"

* * *

Finally, after papers had been signed and stuffed into his bag, Corvus recalled that Harry was still in the cupboard, and had probably heard everything.

Preparing himself mentally, he rose. "I don't believe there's any point in waiting to remove him," Corvus said politely. "Unless you have any objections…"

"Of course," Petunia agreed, giving him a sickly-sweet smile. "I'll just call him now…"

He was promptly herded out the door, and he carefully turned a blind eye to the bang of the cupboard and the hiss of Petunia's ire bearing down on a younger version of what he considered, somewhat, to be himself. It seemed that Harry didn't need to gather much, because the boy was thrown out the door and into Corvus's waiting arms.

"Thank you, sir," Petunia said sweetly. To Harry, she hissed, "You behave for Mr. Potter."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry agreed tonelessly. Corvus carefully held back on his emotions, instead giving his aunt a final smile before waving goodbye.

The door closed, and Corvus looked down at the child who was currently edging cautiously closer to him, as if he might walk off at any moment. He could see the slight shimmer of a disillusionment and scowled.

 _It looks like Dumbledore knew a bit more than he let on…_

Sighing, Corvus finally spoke up. "Well, Harry," he pulled on an easy grin, "it's nice to finally meet you. I'm sure you have plenty of questions, but we should probably go somewhere more comfortable."

The boy nodded mutely. "Yes sir, Mr. Potter."

"It's Corvus," Corvus corrected gently. "Mr. Crow if you want, I like the sound of that. But please stand still - I've got to get you to your new home."

He reached for his wand, then paused. "Oh, and Harry," he added, "Do not mention anything you're about to see to anybody except me. It's considered polite."

And with that, he held out a pointed finger and waited.

Harry let out a surprised shout as a bus wailed down the street, screeching to a stop at the curb. The door flew open, and the driver - one Harry remembered fondly as 'Stan' - offered them a friendly grin.

"Corvus Harrison and his ward Harry Crow, to Owl's Nook in Wales," Corvus announced, tossing the driver a galleon and a pile of sickles. "Two with the extras, please - Harry, remind me, what's your favourite colour?"

"Um, dark blue, si- Mr. Corvus." Harry said quietly.

"Right. Dark blue for him, dark green for me. Consider it a souvenir, Harry." Corvus smiled.

Once they had situated themselves on a bed with their hot chocolate, Corvus quickly cast a simple charm on their drinks and said quickly, "Harry, hold onto something quick. The Knight Bus has a tendency to be a bit bumpy."

That said, the bus responded by lurching forward.

* * *

It was a somewhat dizzy pair that was released onto the street just outside Corvus's house.

Corvus, at least, was still conscious enough to wave goodbye as Ernie revved the engine and drove off to elsewhere. Corvus helped Harry stay on his feet and led him inside, slotting him into a seat at the table.

"I'm afraid we're both a bit too dizzy to eat at the moment," Corvus muttered, dumping the water bottle, toothbrush and mug of cocoa in front of his new ward. "Keep the mug to put your toothbrush in. I'll be there in a moment." He dragged himself upstairs and opened his duffel bag, hopping inside to check on his owls.

He had to admit, Death had a good eye for professions. His owlery was by no means huge, but he had twelve mating pairs - three of which were caring for clutches of owlets, two which were resting, and the rest in various states of activity. He reached out, chirping with his tongue by force of habit, and checked over the owlets one by one.

One of the healthier ones refused to leave his hand, and with a knowing smile at its mother, he cuddled it to his chest.

This was _just_ the thing he needed to get little Harry to open up. Heaven knows Hedwig lent an ear more often than anyone else, hearing out his sleepless musings as he leaned on the window in the Gryffindor dorms.

Marching back down the stairs, Corvus slumped into a seat at the dining table, catching Harry's attention immediately. As much as Harry tried not to, he was watching the owlet with a captivated look.

"Well, Harry," Corvus chuckled, "I suppose I should clarify a few things. I'm Corvus Potter, your cousin, however distant. You can call me Corvus or Crow, whichever is more comfortable for you. I suppose the _lovely_ Petunia didn't tell you much of anything about your family."

"No," Harry murmured softly. "She said.. Aunt Petunia said that Mum and Dad died in a car crash. But not much else."

Corvus sighed. "Right. Harry, I want you to be very calm, okay? Hold out your hands."

Harry did so, watching the owlet cautiously. It was thus that he was totally unprepared for a huge horned owl to fly out from the stairs and land on his back, clawing at his shoulders for support. He stayed dutifully still, however, his eyes rolling up as he tried to catch sight of the large owl who had her head nestled determinedly on his rat's-nest hair.

Stroking the horned owlet gently, Corvus sighed. "Right. Now Harry - I'm going to tell you something which the Dursleys will have denied. It's going to be hard to believe, but please trust me just for a moment. It'll prove itself as we go along."

Harry nodded slowly, careful not to jolt the owl on his back.

"I believe strange things have happened around you," Corvus continued. "Things that have little or no explanation. Things the Dursleys got angry at you for."

Harry nodded again, a hand reaching up to ruffle through the postal owl's feathers.

"There's actually a very simple explanation." Corvus grinned. Leaning forward, he remembered one of the arguably best moments of his life.

"You're a wizard, Harry."

There was a short silence before Harry shook his head slightly and said, "I'm a… a what?" \

"A wizard!" Corvus whispered, eager joy leaking into his voice. "You know - potions and spells, magic wands, teleportation and true fortune telling! That sort of thing! You've got magic, Harry, magic. _That's_ why the Dursleys didn't like you; they're jealous of your ability. You're special, Harry, don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Harry was quite literally at a loss for words. The owl hopped delicately off his back and onto the table, then hobbled into his arms, shocking him back into consciousness.

"Bit much to take in all at once?" Corvus suggested sheepishly. "Right, I suppose it is. Heaven knows I was the same. I suppose it's your bedtime, actually, so let me show you to your room."

This, too, was a revelation, but at least it was one the six-year-old could handle. "I… I get a room?"

Corvus reached around to put a hand on Harry's shoulder, the horned owl fluttering up to rest on Corvus's head. "Yes, you get a room, Harry. I can't promise much - but I can promise that everything, everything you ever knew, will change."

* * *

A/N: Hey again, guess who disappeared for a while. Important announcements are following my musings...

I like this story quite a lot, mostly because it gives me the creative liberty to give a young Harry the perfect adult - the understanding, companionable guardian that he so desperately needed throughout the books. It may take a few dives into the darkness, but for the most part, it's fluff and feelings.

IMPORTANT (?) ANNOUNCEMENT

I've decided to stop withholding things because I have way too much to NOT share the stories I have backed up. I wanted to wait until I had well-developed, easy-to-continue stories so I didn't have any disasters where I just stopped, but unfortunately that doesn't look like it's going to happen. I'd rather give you the basis on which to let your imagination run free than not give anything at all to this site. So yes, I'm mass-uploading a metric ton of writing (around 200,000 words total, if not more *shudders*). Expect to see a ton of things in the next few days.

These stories will be mass-updated once a month, on a no-promises deal. I just want to get them out there.

Happy New Year!

-MDH


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